Resident Evil Bravo
by Snikers
Summary: Ever what would happen if Bravo Team had survived the mansion, rather than Alpha? No? Well, too damn bad. See Bravo Team's exploits through the REmake - who will live and who will die? New chapter - Ed and Ken! Does anyone actually care about these guys?
1. Prologue The Escape of Billy Coen

Prologue  
  
It was, so to speak, a dark and stormy night. The only form of light came from occasional flashes of lightning, and twin headlights of a military truck traveling down the dirt road.  
  
"I think it's getting worse…" Corporal Darren said, squinting through the rain-soaked windshield.  
  
Sergeant Ruthven, driving, gave Darren a quick look before turning his attention back to the road. "How can you tell? It just looks like more and more water to me."  
  
"True. I'm not sure, anyway, and it's splitting hairs anyway. Man, what a storm."  
  
"No kidding," replied Ruthven. "Heard Raccoon has a lot of 'em, but even this has to be big." The truck began to slip, and was in danger of going off the road before Ruthven brought it back under control. "Otherwise they'd have better roads…"  
  
"It's because of the mountains, you know," said Darren, looking over.  
  
"Really, I thought it caused deserts. You know, because – SHIT!" A flash of red flesh was caught in the headlights for a split second, before the truck bumped and something went under the wheels. Ruthven slammed on the brakes, but it was several meters before the vehicle slid to a stop on the muddy road.  
  
"Y'okay?" Ruthven asked Darren. He nodded, then pointed outside inquisitively. Ruthven nodded, and Darren exited. He switched on his flashlight as he did so.  
  
Ruthven growled. Great, now he's squashed something, and whether or not it had jumped in front of him in poor visibility didn't matter. He was really going to catch it now.  
  
"Sir?" Came Darren's voice from outside, over the roaring of the rain. "Think you better come take a look at this."  
  
"Don't call me sir, Darren, I work for my money!" Following his shout, Ruthven turned around and looked at his cargo in the back. "Hey, don't go anywhere, okay?"  
  
Billy Coen, shackled at the wrists and ankles, looked up. He looked casual, as usual, despite the fact that he was being driven to his death. "We'll have to see how it goes," he said, mildly.  
  
Ruthven exited the van, turning on his own flashlight as he did so. Immediately the rain drenched his hair, ran down his neck, plastered his shirt against his body. The mud squelched as he moved around the truck to where Darren was waiting. Ruthven played his flashlight close to the corporal's face, illuminating it without killing his night vision. Darren's expression was calm, but there was definitely something up. Darren didn't have to speak, just demonstrating his point by waving his flashlight slightly. Ruthven looked downward, blinking at what was revealed in the circle of white light.  
  
It was some sort of dog, and it wasn't in good shape either. Ruthven must have hit it pretty hard, because the ribs were snapped and pointing through its skin. But patches of its skin were missing, red muscle exposed – something Ruthven knew a truck couldn't do.  
  
Ruthven knelt, poked the dog with his flashlight - and froze. He stayed stock still, ears perked, only his eyes rolling slowly upward in concentration.  
  
"Darren…do…you…have…your…gun." Ruthven was speaking slow and very quiet. It was peacetime, and they were supposedly unarmed, but Darren always carried an M1911, which sergeants tended to turn a blind eye towards. Ruthven only had his knife.  
  
Darren's eyes turned slowly towards the truck. He started to lean ever so slightly forward.  
  
Not careful enough.  
  
There suddenly came a loud barking from everywhere at once. Darren dashed for the truck door as a mass flew out of the darkness. It struck the corporal on the back and slammed him into the vehicle. Ruthven jumped to his feet, drew his knife and slashed. The dogs yelped and turned on him.  
  
Freed, Darren yanked open the door and grabbed at the glove compartment. Billy Coen's eyes widened, slightly, as Darren drew the 9mm handgun, and Ruthven was pushed into the truck on the seat, a dog of some sort tearing at his throat. He was stabbing it uselessly with the knife. Darren fired twice into the canine, causing it to jerk and fall silent. Ruthven gurgled.  
  
Darren grabbed at Ruthven, demanding to know if he could help, when a second dog flew through the door and chomped down on his leg. He howled, swivelled and fired madly into the creature. Ruthven's knife slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the floor. Unseen, Billy pounced on it, grabbed it in his cuffed hands and stuck the point into the lock of his leg shackles.  
  
Darren was bleeding, but pointing his gun into the dark when a chain went around his neck and jerked backwards. Darren choked, scrabbled, and received a knife into his lungs for his trouble. Billy's strong arm reached about, pulled the pistol out of his hand, and slung him to the side. Legs freed, Billy fell out of the truck and looked about wildly. He held the pistol in one hand, the knife in another, and sprinted into the darkness. Ruthven dead, and Darren dying, he left his old world behind. 


	2. Chapter 1 Crash

Chapter One  
  
Though Forest was relaxed beside her, and apparently asleep, Rebecca Chambers was tense. Her first mission…and with a possibility of combat no less. They were investigating the bizarre murders plaguing Raccoon City as of late. They'd been traced back, so that they could only be coming from the forest. The STARS – or, more specifically, Wesker – had theorized that perhaps the murderers were hiding out at the Spencer Estate, which was why the Bravo team was currently flying over the forest in their chopper. Edward was flying, while Kevin was playing the searchlight about at near random.  
  
Rebecca turned to a touch on her arm. She turned and saw Kenneth, leaning across the slumbering Forest, a grin on his face. "You look like you've swallowed some of my chemicals. That would be bad, you're the only one that knows how to treat you…what's up? Not still nervous, are ya?"  
  
Rebecca immediately shook her head, then nodded slowly. "I'm really nervous…I'm scared. I don't know what we're going to find. What if I do something wrong?"  
  
Kenneth smiled, eyes warm. "Good. If you had said you weren't nervous, I'd know you're a liar. Everyone's scared." He leaned farther towards her, actually supporting himself on Forest's knees. "Know I was. It never really goes away, but believe me, it's never as bad as you'll think."  
  
The rain had let up a bit, but it was still really coming down. Rebecca stared out the window, watching the raindrops patter against the glass. It was sad, somehow. As a child, Rebecca had always loved rain, but now –   
  
"Hey! I found it!" Kevin's shout was loud in the cramped interior of the chopper. Rebecca swivelled. Everyone but Forest, who still seemed asleep, stared out the cockpit window. The light from the searchlight beam illuminated a large, lonesome mansion in the middle of the woods, only about a kilometre from the helicopter. The forest went all but right up to the door. Rebecca was, frankly, impressed. There were windows on the house that were bigger than her apartment. As the mansion started to slide by to their side, Edward banked the chopper to the left. The machine growled as it struggled to perform the manoeuvre. Kevin looked up from the mansion, and Forest's eyes fluttered open at the sound.  
  
Captain Enrico Marini leaned forward, arms resting on Edward's seat. "Find a place to put us down, Edward, if you can. Although that may be a trick, in this forest…"  
  
The rules stated that the pilots had to be wearing their helmets and black goggles at all times, but in reality they were more of a hindrance at night. That was why Edward, unlike Kevin, spotted an open space in the forest right beside the mansion, and only about a minute in the chopper. "Taking us down, captain." Edward grabbed the joystick and eased it forward.  
  
As the chopper was made to slow, another grinding noise came from the blades above them. This time more than Kevin noticed. Forest's eyes rolled upward, Edward shifted in his seat and Enrico went right out and said it. "What's that noise?"  
  
Edward turned. His grey eyes were frowning. "I don't like it…we'll have to check it out when we get back to base. It doesn't sound good. I think we'll be okay, though – "  
  
That, as if to spite, was when a blast came from above, at the rotor blades. The chopper was immediately knocked to the right, like a giant's blow, and immediately began to drop.   
  
Enrico's fingers locked about his armrests. "Engine failure…" he whispered, eyes widening. He stared straight forward, into the back of Edward's head. "Emergency procedures!"  
  
Edward could see the forest leaping up to meet him and froze. He could fly. He could land on a dime – but he had never crashed before. His hands tightened into gnarled claws on the joystick. He started to draw back, as if attempting to put distance between himself and the quickly approaching pines.  
  
"Captain! Request permi – " Kevin shouted, before Enrico interrupted him. "Granted!"  
  
Kevin switched control, and felt his old skill come back into him. Oh yes, back when he was stunt flying – that was when he learned how to do with something like this. He scanned the treetops, knowing he had seconds at most. The house was way too far off. He just needed a big enough space for the chopper –   
  
There! The remains of some half-kept road that barely cut through the trees, but it was enough. Kevin banked sharply to the side, losing serious altitude, going dangerously low. Rebecca went tense as she heard leaves slapping against the landing gear, but then they were clear and Kevin fought to kill the momentum. It swung in midair, throwing the stomachs of the passengers wildly, and the edge of the rotor blades grazed the branches of one tree. The end points shattered, disintegrating, one blade completely fracturing into slivers. The helicopter spun, the tail hitting the trunk of a tree and tearing off, a reverberating smash that echoed throughout the body of the aircraft. That Kevin could even control the chopper in the slightest degree was nigh unbelievable, but with a cry of triumph and the slamming of the joystick to the side, the helicopter banked, curved in midair and regained a right-side-up position before it hit the muddy earth, sliding, and coming to an inappropriately gentle stop.  
  
Enrico looked up immediately. "Bravo Team! Report! Status!"  
  
Kevin reached up and scratched his hair, under his helmet. "A-Okay, Cap'n."  
  
Edward pried his fingers off the joystick and settled into his chair. "Solid."  
  
Richard blinked, checked himself, and found himself uninjured. "I'm all right."  
  
Kenneth looked sharply to the side. "Rebecca? Rebecca!"  
  
Rebecca weezed, arms hugging herself tightly, head between her knees. She hadn't even heard the report. Suddenly she felt strong fingers clasp her by the forehead, pulling it back and up. It was Forest. His high forehead was furrowed, his crystal eyes staring into hers. He held up his other hand, moved it back and forth. Rebecca followed it with her eyes before noticing everyone else was staring at her. She blushed, and held up an OK sign. Forest turned and gave a thumbs up of his own before releasing his hold.  
  
Enrico nodded. "Good. Edward, check on the chopper, would you?" Edward nodded and exited the chopper. Enrico turned to the rest of his team and was about to say something.  
  
When a chorus of "no" came repeatedly, immediately afterwards, from outside, it cut off whatever the captain was going to say. Enrico, becoming increasingly alarmed, began to shout in response. "What? What is it?"  
  
The windshield of the chopper had a large gap in its center, allowing Edward's voice to float faintly in over the soft pattering of rain. "Oh, man…Captain, you're not going to be happy about this. Oh, my god…the bird's trashed. It's all out of shape, the tail is gone…all our rotors are bent. One rotor is gone. This thing is never going to fly again." There came a tortured moan. A rain-soaked Edward came into view in front of the windshield. "I don't know what we're going to do…but we're sure not flying out of here." 


	3. Chapter 2 Light

Chapter Two  
  
As soon as Rebecca had checked everyone up and down, making sure there were no injuries, Enrico had immediately had them file out of the helicopter for a report. It was still raining; Rebecca could feel the cold droplets hitting her head, rolling down her neck, wetting her shirt, soaking her pants. Her boots gave a squish sound as they settled into the mud.  
  
"Okay, troops," said Enrico, hair plastered to his forehead, "we've hit a snag, but the situation's the same. This forest is still infested with what we theorize to be cannibal murderers and attack dogs. Now, it's raining, so they may have missed our crash. Then again, they may not. I want everyone to fan out in case of attackers. Richard's long-range radio is out, but if the rain lets up we may be able to take this road back to Racoon. If worst comes to worst, the Alphas will be looking for us in twenty four hours. In that case, I want you to stay at the chopper, Kevin. Now, in case we do come in contact with the murderers, they are to be considered armed and dangerous. I want everyone to get their weapons out of the chopper, now." The members of the team moved to enter the body of the aircraft.  
  
The light was damaged and non-functional. Edward felt at the arms walls, swore in the dark, and pulled his sidearm free. He switched on its light and played the torch about the inside of the chopper. Amid the flying circle of light the STARS could pull their Berettas off the wall. Only Richard and Forest were the odd ones out; Richard had his prized assault shotgun, and Forest had a semi-legal scope on his sidearm that seemed to accentuate his sniper status.  
  
"Hey, Forest!" Enrico called, loading his own weapon. Forest looked over his broad shoulder, high forehead, killer mullet and raping-your-soul crystal eyes downright eerie in the quickly changing shadows. "I want you to take the grenade launcher this time."  
  
Forest rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. An expression of distaste was evident on his features. Rebecca would have been shocked – had been, when she first joined – but Forest and Enrico, Kenneth had told her, went way back. After working together in the field for several years, they knew each other inside and out. They had each others' ticks and idiosyncrasies mapped out perfectly. The common joke was that their hearts beat in unison. Forest could predict Enrico's orders before they came, and Enrico could near read Forest's mind. The vehicle expert gave more respect in a one-fingered salute than conventional versions from the rest of the team together.  
  
Slipping his 9mm reloads into his blue vest, Forest holstered his scoped handgun and slipped the six-shot grenade launcher off the wall. Grabbing some grenades, he loaded the revolver-esque weapon and slipped some belts of the high explosives over his shoulders.  
  
The squad exited the crashed aircraft. One by one the torches on their pistols switched on. Only Forest, who was a real night owl, kept his off for the purpose of stealth. They dispersed, five men and one woman moving outward. Kenneth and Richard, opposite each other, moved along the road.  
  
As the footsteps of his squad faded away, replaced by the rain on the leaves, Enrico swallowed heavily. There was definitely something out there…he didn't know what, but he was a more than experienced official. He could feel it. His steel eyes studied the leaves with scrutiny.  
  
Rebecca moved carefully, choosing her steps among the underbrush. She held her pistol at the ready, playing the light over her surroundings. She heard a rustling to her side, swivelled, and caught a large crow in her sights. It sat on a branch, tilted its head, and looked at her curiously. Rebecca sighed, relaxed slightly, and lowered her pistol. Suddenly the bird moved, and the oversized crow was on a branch beside her. She flinched backwards, but the crow continued to watch her. She closed her eyes and mentally kicked herself. Idiot. When she opened her eyes again, the bird was gone.  
  
Richard's boots squelched in the muddy road. Unprotected by any tree cover, rain fell directly onto his shoulders, running through his orange-blond crew cut. Feeling exposed on the open road, he fiddled with his Kevlar vest. The assault shotgun was heavy in his hands. Feeling self-conscious, he patted his pockets. Buckshot shells clinked.  
  
Forest's cold eyes flicked back and forth. His scoped Beretta was half-ready and his grenade launcher was slung over his shoulder. His broad-shouldered form stepped carefully between two trees, disturbing a spray of droplets. They pattered onto his head. He didn't notice. Suddenly, way off, he thought he saw something moving. It was just a flicker, but he immediately brought his pistol up. Not to shoot – far too long range for that, maybe with a rifle but not with a Beretta – but to peer through the scope. But there was nothing. Just grey rain. Forest frowned and lowered the handgun.  
  
Edward was irritated. That idiot. Kevin had stranded them here, and now it was raining and they couldn't get home and he had water in his boots and…Edward sighed. Nothing could be done about it now. He dropped his arms to his sides, considering his predicament, and felt thorns slash the back of his hand. He cursed, bringing the bleeding member to his mouth. What a great day this was turning out to be.  
  
When Rebecca had just joined the force, Kenneth was quick to take her under his wing. While this was partially because of Kenneth's often fatherly attitude, it was also because Rebecca, in a way, reminded Kenneth of himself. Somewhat new in the field himself, Kenneth often went into missions with his stomach twisted in a knot. It was worse now. With the rain falling in sheets, the chemical expert new he wouldn't be able to hear nor see an attacker unless it was right in front of him. Not to mention that he was in the open on the road, with a bright cone of light showing up perfectly in the falling droplets to mark him. Blinking rain out of his eyes, Kenneth topped a small hill on the road – and instantly dropped, snapping off the torch, to a crouch. He held himself absolutely still, eyes transfixed on what was ahead of him.  
  
Light.  
  
Each of the team's radios vibrated. Everyone else were still taking it off their belts when Enrico had it up to his mouth. "Captain here. What is it, over." He pushed himself against a tree, not eager to be detected while distracted by a report.  
  
"Cap – I've found something interesting. I think you're gonna want to have a look at it, in fact. A truck. Over."  
  
"Please confirm, a truck? Over."  
  
"Exactly. It wasn't a crash, either. One of the doors is open and the light's still on. There's no damage. I can't see anyone inside, though, and it looks recent. It seems unlikely, though, that someone would leave this shelter here unattended, unlocked, in the middle of a storm…at least, not voluntarily. Over."  
  
Enrico was silent for a moment. This was a twist. "Can you get close? Over."  
  
"Well…there's some light spilling out of it, and I don't want to attract fire, but I don't think there's anyone around. Over."  
  
"Get close and see what you can find, but be careful. Over."  
  
"Roger. Over and out."  
  
Kenneth looked about one more time, crouched, and made for the vehicle as quick and as low as possible. Passing into the spilling light, he felt the hair on the back of his neck prick up – and then was at the truck. He jumped inside, switched off the overhead light, and listened. He couldn't hear anything dangerous, but in this weather it would be hard to find anything. After a moment of waiting, Kenneth switched on his pistol's flashlight and played it over the inside of the vehicle. The light played over the steering wheel, the dashboard, the seats –   
  
"Bingo," he whispered.  
  
Enrico's radio vibrated in his hand. He hadn't put it away. He pressed the button and brought it to his ear. "Kenneth again. I've found something you're just going to love. Remember when I told you the door was left open? Well, on the side of the open door, there's blood all over the seats. It's on the dashboard and underneath as well. I found something else, too. Forest's the vehicle guy, of course, but I'm pretty sure that this kind of truck is used for transporting extremely dangerous criminals. Over."  
  
"Exit the truck. Preserve some evidence for us. STARS!" Everyone was listening in on the radio, as per procedure. "I want everyone to head to the truck. Over."  
  
"It's on the road, about four hundred metres north of the mansion, if that helps," Kenneth added earnestly. 


	4. Chapter 3 Run, Forest, Run

Chapter Three  
  
While the other Bravos were heading for Kenneth's truck, Kevin was still confined to the chopper. Frankly, he didn't mind it. His feet were up on what amounted to the dashboard, out of the rain, and relaxing. He was using a penlight to read a magazine open on his lap. *Spectacled Babes,* the magazine's title read. And although it didn't strike Kevin as very creative, or even clever, it was certainly accurate – the centrefold model was wearing a pair of wireless glasses, if very little else.  
  
Of course, Kevin only read the magazine for the articles.  
  
A squishing in the mud came from outside. While Kevin didn't have to respond to the order, he still had heard Enrico tell the Bravos to find the jeep. Kevin opened a door, felt a cool, wet breeze hit his face, and leaned out. It was Richard, jogging by, and positively dripping. Kevin gave a thumbs-up to the communications expert. Richard, always cheery, returned the signal with a grin.  
  
Kevin closed the door and settled back into the seat. Suddenly inspired, he took of his helmet and inspected himself in the mirrored goggles. Wisps of piss-yellow hair were evident on his upper lip – he needed a shave. Kevin didn't bother to shave every day; he wasn't a particularly hairy person. Between drooping shoulders, diminutive muscles and a height of five foot four, the former stunt pilot could not be considered by many to be the epitome of masculinity.  
  
The co-pilot donned his helmet, causing the flare gun to jangle. Even though STARS pilots carried two hip holsters – one for a sidearm, the other for the flare pistol – the idiot-proofed signal device had a chain to hang about one's neck. Kevin preferred to wear the pistol in the latter. He recovered his magazine, flipped to a random page, and studied. Reading his horoscope, of course, that was all…  
  
A sound of footsteps came from outside. *That's probably Richard heading for the truck,* Kevin thought to himself. Richard and Kenneth had headed in opposite directions, so obviously Richard would have the longest distance to travel. Kevin didn't envy him. Kevin was proud of his crisp yellow vest and black camo pants, didn't want to track mud and –  
  
Wait – what?  
  
Kevin frowned. A gear had just jammed in his head. He had no idea what, but there was a little voice in Kevin's mind telling him something wasn't computing. Leaving his radio on the seat, he opened the chopper door and stepped outside. Rainwater streamed off his hard helmet and down his visor.  
  
He tilted his head. "Hey! Rick!"  
  
No answer.  
  
Kevin flipped up his visor. It was streaming with water and near opaque. He could feel cold water streaming down his back, but didn't go into the helicopter.  
  
Something here wasn't adding up. Two and two were making pi. He didn't know what…but something was wrong.  
  
Rebecca tried to pick her way through a mess of thorny branches without pricking herself. After a laborious struggle, she made it – and promptly whacked her calf against a downed log, scratching just deep enough to draw blood. "Ow – darn it…" Well, at least she could see Kenneth's discovery, or rather, the squad gathered about it. She could see a couple of circles of light playing along the ground by a dark object, a third flashlight joining them. She'd reach them in under a minute, provided she didn't have to go through any more giant pricker bushes.  
  
Actually, on that note…Rebecca kneeled, wetting her pants knee, and inspected her leg. It wasn't actually dripping blood, but it smarted, and when she brushed her fingertips against the cut they came away red. Still, just a scrape. Didn't even warrant a Band-Aid, in her opinion; she doubted it would actually get infected either. She had gotten worse from her older brother back when she was a kid.  
  
Something whipped by to her side.  
  
Instantaneously her pistol was up in her hand, torch sweeping back and forth. Light shone off of wet leaves, but there was nothing there. There *had* been something, though; she knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. She'd heard it crashing through the underbrush and seen it out of the corner of her eye. Still holding her Beretta out at arm's length with one hand, she reached to her waist and pulled out her radio.  
  
"This is Rebecca…I think there's something out there, request immediate backup, repeat I – "  
  
Rebecca felt movement to her right and turned, just as something quick and dark leapt out of the bushes. She heard barking, swung her pistol, and caught a flash of red and black in the light before firing. The pistol kicked, the shape was knocked to the side – and kept coming. Rebecca fired thrice more, catching the dog a couple of times in the side at barely five feet while one shot scattered a spray of droplets from a puddle. The shape fell to the ground, thrashing, and with one strangled yelp fell motionless. In the shaking light from Rebecca's firearm she could see what appeared to be dog – only wrong somehow –   
  
Enrico, Edward, and Kenneth were already at the truck when their radios went off. Enrico and Edward had theirs out, but Kenneth was still unclipping his when the transmission suddenly shut off and gunshots suddenly began to rain out from the south. Four, split seconds apart, and then a second of silence.  
  
Kenneth immediately wheeled in their direction, eyes wide. He knew which way that was. "Rebecca!" He shouted, droplets spraying wildly.  
  
"Get over there!" Enrico roared, pulling his radio up to his mouth, even as another trio of shots rang out from the trees. "Contact with the enemy, respond immediately!" Kenneth was already sprinting towards the gunshots' origin, tossing his radio aside, Beretta coming up in his hand. He plowed into the forest, branches snapping under the assault of 200+ pounds of muscle, almost as loud as the three gunshots that came next. The large-framed man landed and pivoted, disoriented. The trees played with sound, the rain deadened it, and where the hell was she?! Another trio of Beretta shots went off to his right and Kenneth thought he saw a dark shape fly in mid-air. He charged, branches slapping and slashing his skin. Suddenly, she came into view; Rebecca with her gun held in both hands, water streaming off her. In the split second it took for him to process the sight, what appeared to be a dog leapt. Black blood gushed out of a hole in its side as its jaw clamped down on the medic's forearm. Rebecca cried out, but raised her foot and brought it down on the canine, pinning it to the ground. The barrel of her Beretta jammed up against its skull and Kenneth could see her teeth gritted, face pulled into a savage grimace as she pulled the trigger. Everything above the dog's windpipe exploded in a spray of black and the corpse fell to the ground, among more of its kind.  
  
"Bec!" Kenneth shouted, skidding to a stop in the mud. Rebecca turned towards him, arm pumping red, spent shell casings still falling to the ground.  
  
"Kenneth!" She cried, just beginning to grin, as a black shape came out of the darkness behind her. She spotted his expression and had started to whirl even before he spoke.  
  
"SIX O'CLOCK!" he screamed, arm coming up to point. *In the way, can't fire –* The torch on her handgun danced over the branches, white light illuminating a crimson face on a human body. The circle of light shone on his chest as she fired, one-handed. They were all perfect shots, four holes punched into the chest of the man –   
  
- who didn't stop. And as Rebecca's handgun clicked uselessly the man returned the perfect shots with one of his own, ragged arm slashing out, fingers ending in what looked almost like bone that slashed across her throat. Kenneth saw red spray high in the air as skin was slashed away, blood knifing high into the air, staining the leaves, falling back onto her face, pumping out of her throat and she was gone just like that – eighteen years of med school and no drugs and studying and aced tests and a quick wit and a warm, ready smile, gone.  
  
*No, no* – by the time Rebecca had started to fall the crimson-headed man had halved the distance to Kenneth. Overcome by not a little rage and not a little fear he raised his Beretta, yanking the trigger before he even meant to. Shots went high and one struck it in the shoulder. It didn't slow, just one step away, claw coming forward – and Kenneth, point blank range, corrected its aim and fired into that hideous red face of its. It was a lucky shot, right into the bridge of its nose and he felt a rush of primal joy as the back of its head exploded outward and it was thrown to the ground.  
  
Kenneth leapt for Rebecca's side, already knowing she was dead and gone, and then suddenly wondered just where in hell his backup was. He looked in the direction he came from and saw it.  
  
Enrico and Edward were still by the truck. And they were shooting.  
  
Sweat, colder than the rain soaking his clothes, squeezed out of Kevin's pores. He began to shake as the popping of gunfire, a little at first, then growing came from up the road. He took an involuntary step backward.  
  
*Oh, no.*  
  
Kevin turned and dashed for the chopper. He slipped in the mud, steadied himself against its torn body and ripped open its door. Landing on the pilot's seat, he whirled and slammed the door behind him, locking it. He gripped the armrests of his chair, knuckles turning white, peering out into the grey rain.  
  
For a moment there was nothing. And then…  
  
A growling came from behind him. Eyes wide, he turned in his seat – in time to see the black, large dog leap for his throat. There was no time to move or even block it before it landed heavily on his chest.  
  
Kevin was knocked out of his chair, the dashboard's yoke jabbing into his right kidney as his back hit the dashboard. He turned his head to the side as its jaws lashed downward; its teeth slashed his cheek but missed his jugular. He threw the dog to the side, it landing in the co-pilot seat as he dived for the back of the chopper's body. His hand just brushed one of the Berettas lining the wall when his leg was yanked backwards. He crashed, chin hitting the floor, stars exploding in his eyes. He cried out in pain as he felt teeth rip at his calf, felt the wetness of his own blood. Desperately, he kicked back with his other leg. His heel flailed uselessly for a second before hitting it around the eyes, crushing its nose, whacking its shoulder. He slammed it against the side of the seat. Nothing worked. The dog worked its jaw, slicing deeper into Kevin's leg.  
  
But as its teeth shifted, the co-pilot had a split second to throw himself upward, clawing at the wall. Both hands found purchase on the stocks of Berettas before he was yanked downward again. His grip held and the pistols popped off the wall. Landing on his elbows, he thumbed both of their safeties before attempting to roll over onto his back. The dog's grip held firm and Kevin could only turn halfway, at the waist, but that was all he needed. The Berettas came to bear on the canine's flank as Kevin fired. A total of five shots punctured the dog's lung and exited the other side, mixing with Kevin's on the floor. Three more went wide.  
  
Still holding the pistols in both hands, Kevin kicked the corpse off his legs. God, his leg hurt so MUCH! He reached down and gripped the red, torn limb, blood seeping out between his fingers. He reached up and grabbed one armrest. Bleeding, bad, had to get to Rebecca, had to –   
  
And his radio fell off the seat, bouncing on the metal floor. It was vibrating like mad. He snatched it up, turned it on –   
  
"The mansion!" Enrico's shout came in loud through the static. "We're being overwhelmed, go for the mansion, it's our only chance!"  
  
Kevin was near a state of panic. Jamming the two Berettas in his twin holsters, he grabbed the radio and kicked open the co-pilot door. He took one step out, landed on his injured leg, and nearly collapsed. He couldn't walk like this - ! It was just so painful – he couldn't run, he couldn't –  
  
A dog's howling rose up over the sound of rainfall. It was nearby.  
  
Kevin ran.  
  
Edward turned and, still running backwards, fired four shots into the chasing dogs. He was moving, and they were moving, but one still hit. The dog jerked and kept coming. Edward turned and continued to run forward.  
  
A pack of dogs, way too many to deal with – they greatly outnumbered Enrico and Edward, Kenneth ahead and trailed by Richard. Kenneth crashed through the leaves and left broken branches in his wake, clearing a path for the others and the barking dogs behind them. Edward slipped and nearly fell, surprised, as something big and black zipped in front of his face. It came around for another run, but Edward swung his fist and smacked it out of the air. It was a crow. He continued to run, Richard landing on the wounded bird's ribs.  
  
"I see it!" Enrico pointed, still running, at the growing shape ahead. As Edward looked, he saw the boxy shape grow shadowy features. It was the mansion. Edward's pistol came up to shoot as crashing came to his left, was about to shoot – when he saw a flash of blue, a glint of metal, and realized he was looking at Forest. His silhouette was disguised by the grenade launcher on his back.  
  
Forest, still to the right, charged ahead, slipping between trees like a snake. His feet pounded the ground, sprinting on the balls of his feet. The mansion was barely visible in front of the group. The dogs couldn't be very far behind. Shadows and artificial light flashed upon Forest's broad back as he dashed for the abandoned building. Mud was kicked up under his boots.  
  
The rest of the squad followed, the dogs pounding in their boot prints two seconds later. Edward could feel his lungs burning, breath coming in ragged gasps. He prayed he wouldn't slip in the mud, knowing he'd be dead before he could get up…  
  
Kenneth had pulled ahead of Forest, but the group as a whole couldn't be more than a hundred feet from the mansion. They were ahead of the dogs, and Kenneth knew they would make it, they had to make it, when a pitiful crying came from the trees to the right. Forest turned to the side and saw a flash of yellow – Kevin Dooley – through wet leaves, a desperate look on his face.  
  
"Wait! Wait!" He was limping, badly at that, and Forest could see dark shapes in the trees behind him. No way he was going to make it, not like that. That was why Forest, pursued by dogs, skidded to a stop and leapt between two pines, pulling the grenade launcher off his back. The dogs were only metres behind Kevin when the first grenade whistled by his side and exploded. Kevin was jarred, but didn't fall; the animals were thrown to the side.  
  
"Forest! What are you do – " Edward began to speak, but was pushed forward by Enrico. "He's covering us! Let him be, he knows what he's doing!"  
  
Richard saw Kevin hobbling as fast as he could past Forest, who released another grenade into the dog hordes as backtracked rapidly. Richard turned, pumped his shotgun, and fired. A dog was thrown off its feet. It rose again, but caught the edge of another buckshot blast and staggered.  
  
Kenneth thundered up the dilapidated porch, grabbed both doors, and yanked them open. Sickly yellow light spilled out and over him. He stumbled inside, turning. Edward broke the tree line and flew up the steps, Enrico on his heels.  
  
As Kevin came into view, hopping forward on one good leg and one limp member, he was backlit by a sudden flash of orange fire. In the split-second on light Kenneth could see everything – Forest and Richard, both firing, both back-pedalling at a frantic pace. As the glow died he saw Richard turn, holding his shotgun to his chest, running for the mansion.  
  
The next blast showed several corpses, two of them humanoid – and literally dozens if not scores of the dogs, closer to Forest than ever. They were charging forward madly, heedless of the death raining down on them. A tree continued to burn, rain-soaked as it was, illuminating the sniper in flickering light as he jumped backwards, yanking at the grenade ammunition about his torso. He was empty. Kevin bounced up the steps as Enrico jumped out the door, standing on the porch with his hands to his mouth, yelling at the top of his lungs.  
  
"LEAVE IT! DROP IT, RUN, RUN!!!" Speyer threw the grenade launcher downward, whipped around, and sprinted as if his life depended on it – which it did. Dogs barked, bounded after him, ten metres back if that. He ran as if on feathered feet for the mansion, the growling reapers close behind.  
  
Richard, by now at the foot of the porch steps, whirled, bringing the shotgun to bear, but it was pointless. It was too far off, impossible not to hit the vehicle expert, and the orange-shirted man turned and ran up the steps and through the door.  
  
The rain was spraying Enrico in the face, but he didn't seem to notice. Streams of water fell from his chin, droplets scattering as he stood and yelled. "Go, Forest, go, c'mon buddy, move move move, run, run, RUN FOREST RUN!!!" Kenneth reached out, grabbed his arm, and yanked. Enrico staggered back into the house but didn't stop bellowing. Forest was on the jets, going warp, full steam. His legs pumped like pistons, his arms jackknifed up and down and he nearly flew across the ground. But the dogs were faster and practically on his heels. The lead lunged for his boot, but its jaws closed with a metallic snap just inches away. It was thrown off balance, fell to the grass, and was immediately trampled by its followers.  
  
They were too close, they were in his sphere of comfort at this point and he was still fifty feet from the mansion. "He won't make it," shouted Edward suddenly, hating himself but knowing it was true. "We have to close the doors, he's not going to make it!"  
  
"Wait!" Enrico held up a hand. "Kenneth, Edward, grab the doors, but don't close until MY SIGNAL." His finger was up, his muscles quivering, an expression of intensity on his face. "Wait…"  
  
Forest broke the tree barrier, jumping over a log, dogs following suit before he hit the ground. He landed running, eyes blazing, every vein on his body standing out in freakish detail. "NOW, DO IT NOW!" Enrico's finger came down. "COME ON FOREST, COME ON – "  
  
Kenneth and Edward reacted immediately, but the doors were big and they had to grunt, putting everything they had into it as the doors were finally swinging shut, Enrico's call becoming a simple, primal yell as the a blue streak dived through the door, and its black boots passed through the crack just as the two heavy wooden doors slammed together. There were several heavy blows on the wood before its inertia was even killed. Thumps and some cracks rained on the doors for two seconds before a deafening tapestry of growls, barks and howls came from the opposite side.  
  
Forest rolled on the ground, Enrico collapsed to his knees, and Kevin whimpered, cradling his leg. But they had made it to the mansion. They were safe…  
  
And they were trapped. 


	5. Chapter 4 Moving Out

Chapter Four   
  
The room was silent. Pictures covered the wall along the stairway. The upper hallway was empty, the lower room was still. The wall of windows was clear.   
  
And then, as sudden as that, the windows exploded. Glass flew inward, as did a muscular man, firing as he fell.   
  
The black crows followed him, though two exploded to the man's shots. He landed on his back on the stairs, dog tags jangling. But the man was tough – "one tough mofo," one had said – and rolled to his feet despite pecks, cuts and bruises. He grabbed the banister, vaulted over, and shot three more crows in midair. His soles hit the wood, planks cracking, and were the only parts of his body not immediately attacked by the swarming birds. They picked at his bare arms, exposed neck, vulnerable face. He struck at them blindly, eyes closed, too many to shoot. He ran, banged into a wall, bounced into another, and guessed he was in a hallway. He hit a door and grabbed at the doorknob – it was locked.   
  
"Open up, you!" He twisted the doorknob, hammered the door. The birds were becoming unbearable. Finally, slamming his weight against it, he felt the cheap lock break, as well as most of the knob. The door opened, he fell through, and slammed it behind him. Only a few crows followed him - the exact amount for payback. He grabbed two and slammed them against the wall. He reached out, plucked another, and crushed it in a bear hug, feeling its ribs shatter. He smacked the last right out of the air, bringing his foot down on it hard. And that was all.   
  
Enemies gone, time to recuperate – he had to recuperate, rest in case of later attack…Billy Coen slumped against the door, reloading his handgun. Five minutes, and then he'd be moving again.   
  
As if to compensate for the growling and barking from outside, Bravo team was silent. Richard, wiping his face on his T-shirt sleeve, looked at his comrades hopelessly. Enrico stared intently at the doors, as if expecting one of the dogs to spontaneously figure out how to use doorknobs. Edward reloaded his gun, taking care not to get rainwater into the magazine. Kenneth had his gun pointed at the door, perhaps fearful of the same thing as Enrico. Forest just sat on the floor, and though Richard couldn't hear him over the howling, he could tell he was panting heavily just by his movements. It reminded Richard of his girlfriend's budgies, whenever they got spooked; his chest sucked in and out at a rapid pace.   
  
"Wow, man," Kevin said, on his back and clutching at his calf. "This place is…this place is big. Fricken huge."   
  
It was true. Richard turned in a circle. Just the lobby was a cavernous room with two levels, that could fit his whole house and a lot of room to spare. If the entire mansion is like this, Richard thought to himself, we've got a lot of exploring to do.   
  
"No, really, this is gigantic," Kevin continued, unnecessarily. "Why am I paying three hundred bucks a month for a roach infested closet when these cannibal guys get this house for free?" The co-pilot gave a sickly grin.   
  
Edward looked over at him. "We've just been trapped in hostile territory by countless bloodthirsty dogs, and you're thinking of real estate?" His tone was poisonous. He rammed his new magazine home with a loud clack.   
  
Kevin gave another grin, and kept it despite the gasp he omitted a second later. He squeezed his leg tighter, blood dribbling over and between his fingers. "Just joking through the pain…could Rebecca come over, please?" He looked around, then a look of alarm came over his face. "Where's Rebecca?" he demanded, staring at Kenneth. Kenneth avoided his eyes, shrinking into himself.   
  
"Rebecca, she's…" his tongue locked.   
  
"No," Kevin breathed, colour draining from his already pale face.   
  
"She's dead," said Edward, eyes hard. "She encountered an enemy, and next thing I saw her throat was ripped out." It was common knowledge in the STARS that, while Edward wasn't a sociopath, he wasted no compassion on the dead. He turned to Enrico. "Captain, if we don't start moving soon, we're next. We're knee deep in enemy territory and nowhere to go but deeper. If you could give us a plan?…"   
  
Enrico's brow furrowed, still staring at the doors. After a moment he spoke. "Okay, here's the situation. We've got no communications, no backup, and nothing but our sidearms. We have tougher stuff back at the chopper, but outside this house are attack dogs, far too many to engage. We don't know who or what are inside this house, and we've lost the element of surprise, but if we go outside we're dead. What's more, we're Bravo Team – we've got two pilots, a chemist, a radio expert and a sniper in a close quarters situation. Our medic is incapacitated and one of our pilots is wounded. Things look bad."   
  
Enrico closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, and turned to face his team. "But we're still STARS. We are police. We are going to investigate this mansion and arrest anyone we find. But to do that, we have to split up. Do you all have your radios?"   
  
Kenneth frowned. "No. I dropped it."   
  
Kevin gulped. Since the report of Rebecca's death, he had suddenly seemed ten degrees worse off. "I left mine in the chopper."   
  
Everyone else had theirs. "Alright, we can work with that. Forest, give Kenneth your radio." The sniper handed the device over without complaint. "You all have your sidearms?…Good. Alpha will be after us eventually, until then we have to secure this area. Kenneth, you go through those doors there." Enrico pointed to double doors on the west side of the room. Then he turned, pointed at matching doors on the other end of the lobby. "Richard – I want you to check that out. Edward, Forest, you take the above floor up there. I'll stay here with Kevin, see what I can do about that bleeding. I think I can bandage it up, but I'm not Rebecca, so I don't think he's going anywhere fast. Now, I want everyone to keep quiet. Don't use the radio unless you absolutely have to, our batteries are limited and this place looks big. You're all smart, so rely on your own judgement. Any questions?" Everyone shook their heads. Enrico smiled, his tired expression cracking. "Excellent. Move out." 


	6. Chapter 5 And so it begins

Chapter Five  
  
Kenneth tensed, sucked in a breath, and exhaled slowly. Then he raised one foot and kicked the doors open. He jumped into the room, handgun sweeping the area. It was a dining room. A grandfather clock stood to one side, ticking. There was no further movement.  
  
Kenneth closed the doors behind him, then brought his gun back up to a ready position. He edged forward, eyes checking every shadow, pistol at the ready. He reached the table, went to the left - and felt something hit his foot. A loud rattle rapped out from the same side. He whirled, pointed his gun downward – and realized he was aiming at a typewriter. It was on a small, rickety table he had accidentally kicked.  
  
Kenneth choked back a laugh, suddenly giddy. "Careful, Sullivan, it's gonna print on you," he whispered, kicking himself. Man, he was jumpy, this was ridicul-  
  
He heard a thump from upstairs, a sort of sliding sound, and instantly brought his gun up. The dining room had an upstairs level too, but it was dark; Kenneth had thumbed his flashlight without realizing it. The circle of white light leapt about wildly, before it stopped and quivered on a section of banister. But there was nothing. Whatever had made the sound – if there even was a sound – was gone, or at least not visible. Kenneth wasn't relieved. Who did he think he was? For all he knew there were invisible enemies here.  
  
*Yeah, and any second Forest is gonna come through that door with bombs strapped to his chest. Quit acting like such a * – Kenneth saw some movement with his peripheral vision, and this time he was sure. His gun swivelled, the light illuminating the banister on the far end of the dining hall. Yes, there was something there, though it wasn't a psychopath with an Uzi, as he'd first assumed. Actually, it was much smaller; a droplet of liquid dripped from the second floor and fell, going out of sight behind the table. Kenneth, gun low, advanced to the end of the room, in front of a long silent fireplace. A puddle of red liquid was there, reflecting his flashlight on the hardwood. He crouched, sniffed the air, and frowned. He knew that smell, years of chemical experience and police duty engraving it into his brain. Blood.  
  
As he watched, another drop went *plunk* into the puddle. Kenneth turned his face upward, gazing at the second floor.  
  
* * *  
  
Richard leaned on one door, slowly opening it with a loud creaking. It was a small room, or smaller than the lobby at least. It was also dark. He swept the room with is shotgun's torch, illuminating dreary paintings and one statue. The white light produced strange, leaping shadows as it passed over the stone, shining on the polished white marble. Richard stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, checking every corner. The barks from outside were instantly cut off as the door shut. He moved slowly, shotgun at his shoulder. There was one door on the other side of the room, as well as an opening to some sort of a hallway. It was blocked off with a dresser.  
  
Richard stepped silently towards the statue. No one hiding behind it with a sawed off shotgun. It was of a nude woman kneeling on a pedestal, a sort of bowl on her shoulder. Curious, Richard played his torch over the statue, noting that it was in -very- full detail, at least from the neck down. His white light revealed a rather smooth, featureless face – *probably didn't think a woman's head was important,* Richard thought cynically – and illuminated the tipped bowl.  
  
Something was inside. Richard tilted his head, squinting. A point, or corner, of something was visible. Of what, he couldn't tell. He jumped, hand swiping, but it was at least a foot out of his reach, maybe more. He looked about, seeing if there was something he could use to reach for it. Nothing, unless he pushed the dresser up to stand on, but he didn't how much weight that could take. He could poke at the bowl with his shotgun, see if he could knock the object out, but he reserved self-inflicted gun wounds for idiots. Only one other way…he ran his boot along the base of the pedestal. Definitely attached to the floor, seemed rather solid too. He placed his shotgun carefully on the tiles. Looking about again, this time with a sheepish grin, he raised one foot and placed it on the pedestal. Reaching up, he grabbed for a handhold and grasped the statue's breasts (noting once again the sculptor's attention to detail). He pulled himself upward, coming to a standing position, and wrapped his arms around the statue from behind.  
  
*This is more Kevin's style, not mine,* Richard reflected, pressing himself against the statue to keep from crashing to the floor. Cautiously, he transferred his left arm to around the statue's neck, reaching out with his right. Running his fingers about the inside of the bowl, Richard felt the object's edge and slid it out. It was a sheet of paper. Richard let it drop to the floor, landing on his feet a minute later. He turned over the paper, leaving it on the ground, then regained its shotgun and used its light to inspect it. It was a map. Richard squinted, gradually determining it was of the mansion.  
  
Excellent! Richard scooped up the map, grinning widely. This would get them around the mansion without scratching their heads. Good thing, too, it looked like this place was even bigger than it seemed.  
  
*Thump.* Richard Aiken swivelled, shotgun coming to bear. The circle of light went over the dresser and into the small hallway. It exposed a sloppy painting, as well as many spilled knick-knacks. Cautiously, he moved forward, reaching the dresser. He slid himself over it, trying not to concentrate his body weight. Landing lightly on his feet, he moved slowly into the hallway. The flashlight illuminated the painting, which looked even worse up close. It made sense, he supposed. It looked like they stowed all their useless junk here. It also showed that the hallway turned to the left, filled with even more bits of garbage. Light glinted off something to the side. Richard leaned in, inspected it. An ice pick, sharp and almost new-looking. Shaking his head – yeah, you could call it a deadly weapon, but you could really say that for anything – he turned back to the general pile of trash at the end of the hall, piled high.  
  
He was so engrossed in his search, he didn't hear the well-oiled, well-disguised door open behind him.  
  
* * *  
  
If Forest didn't know better, he'd think the darkness actually spilled out of the doorway when he had opened the doors. Giving his eyes a second to adjust to the twilight, he stepped through the second-floor double doors, closing them behind him as he did so. He took note of the bizarre sound-proof quality of the walls as the barking was stopped instantly, although the sound of the outside storm still came through the windows. He also noted that he was on a balcony, and although the floor below was brightly lit, his seemed to take none of the light. Looking down, he noticed Kenneth, standing over a puddle of blood. He watched as the chemical expert turned, opened a door behind him and carefully went through.  
  
Forest took a step forward when he noticed something fall off the edge of the balcony opposite. He paused, squinted, and realized what it was. A drop of liquid. He noticed a trail leading from the dripping spill, around the edge of the hole in the floor, and across the left side of the balcony – and by him. He turned to see it was blood, the trail leading to a crumpled body in the corner. Forest donned latex gloves and crouched by the body, the grenade rounds strapped on his chest clanking as he did so, and checked for a pulse, although he could clearly see the man was way beyond saving. His skin was rotten, raising the stink of decay into the still air. Forest had seen bodies left alone for a few weeks and knew when a corpse had been dead for a while. What he had never seen before was a combination like this. The state of the flesh was very degraded, suggesting of a long period of deterioration, but at the same time…new. Almost wet. As if it had gone through weeks of decay in a few hours' time.  
  
Forest frowned, forehead furrowing. Maybe it was the storm outside. Some trick with condensation, making flesh appear fresh. Maybe. But Forest didn't think so – just didn't fly for him. Standing, he cast another frowning look down at the corpse. He suddenly had a wry wish it could get up and tell him exactly what happened. His scoped Beretta at the ready, he moved along the balcony. The corpse lay where it was.  
  
* * *  
  
Edward opened the door, stepping casually through, gun pointed at the floor. Slightly angled hinges let it shut itself behind him.  
  
Edward was instantly disoriented as wind whipped rain into his face. He staggered back, gun coming up in confusion, before a crack of lightning illuminated his surroundings. He was outside, yes, but still on the second floor. A balcony ran the length of the wall, fully exposed to the pounding elements. Edward brought up an arm to shield his face, a crack of thunder resounding through the air.  
  
*Storm's getting worse,* he thought. There hadn't been lightning before. Carelessly, he swept the area with his handgun, though he doubted that any cannibal would be out here in this weather. Already having lost whatever degree of warmth he had in the mansion, he moved forward, careful not to slip on the balcony's wet floor.  
  
He heard a howl, alarmingly close. He swivelled, pointed his Beretta in the direction of the noise's source – and realized he was preparing for an attack from off the balcony. Unless the dogs had learned to fly, (or, perhaps, jump very high) there was little chance of attack. Feeling foolish, Edward lowered his handgun, then thought of something. He switched on the flashlight and shone it below the balcony.  
  
There was a person there. Edward shouted, but at that exact moment lightning hit something nearby, thunder drowning out his voice. The lightning also put spots in his eyes. By the time he had recovered, the person was gone, having moved out of sight.  
  
*Damn.*  
  
At least it was proof there were people here; and if the dogs hadn't killed them yet, they evidently had some means of controlling them. It didn't take a genius to figure out it was one of the cannibal murderers. Edward's face took on a sinister expression and his mouth curved into a thin smile.  
  
"Bingo," he breathed.  
  
* * *  
  
Enrico had moved Kevin up the first set of stairs, on the brief plateau before they split into twin stairs to the right and left. He didn't want to disturb Kevin and his injured leg, but he had a nasty image of the dogs somehow busting the door open and had decided a dozen steps could at least provide a little protection.  
  
"This day started out so well," said Kevin, thumping the back of his helmeted head against the wall in a rhythmic fashion. The words and thumps were both acting to distract himself from the pain caused by Enrico's bandaging. "Got out of bed ten minutes before work, jump off and squish a cockroach. Wasn't even looking! Anyway, washed him off my foot, then walked to work, wasn't raining then, and saw the guys that were gonna cut off my landlord's electricity. I don't know what he's doing with the rent money I give him, probably drinks it away. So anyway I ow ow ow!"  
  
"Sorry," mumbled Enrico, latex gloves slick with blood.  
  
"So anyway," continued Kevin, not losing a beat, "I guess they got the wrong address or something, because they go right across the street from my building and shut off the power. So that landlord comes out, and he's not some flabby white trash like *my* landlord. He's this Japanese guy, and he's about my size but he has a -big- voice. And, like, you know how everyone says the Japanese are all polite and stuff? Well, this guy's proof that stereotypes don't work because he's just yelling and screaming blue murder at them, and – ow – and so these two electricity guys are shaking in their boots, right? And they're like all trying to say sorry and stuff because this guy is like red in the face, and like I said he's about my size but he looked about ready to turn them into ravioli, right? And they explain they have to shut off the power here but of course, I know this guy, and I know *my* landlord, and I could tell they got given the wrong place – ow. So anyways, after they get an ID on him they realize he's been making his payments, they say they make a mistake and leave. And this guy turns around and sees me, and comes across the street at me, and tells me to tell my landlord – my 'crap-ass piece of garbage landlord,' specifically – to make his payments from now on. And so I'm like 'he didn't listen to you he sure won't listen to me' and he's like 'I'M SURROUNDED BY IDIOTS!' and walks away swearing to himself and I was late by then, but I slipped into the RPD and no one noticed, so then my breakfast was as usual some of the coffee in the office, but it was really *good* coffee and I thought 'man, I'm lucky today' and so anyways then I–"  
  
"Kevin?" Kevin halted and brought his head forward. "I've managed to stop this bleeding on your leg. You had a lot of gnashes, which was why it took so long, sorry. Now, you're not going to bleed to death, and I think I got it steady enough to walk on, but you're not going to be heading anywhere fast, okay?"  
  
The top half of Kevin's face was hidden by the black visor of his helmet, but his mouth grinned. Of course, Enrico could see sweaty flesh and a pale pallor too, but Kevin seemed casual. "No kidding, I can walk like this? Thanks, Captain – I thought I'd be sitting here for a while."  
  
"I'd prefer it if you wouldn't. We're still in enemy territory, and you're stuck at a walking pace for right now, okay? So you should probably stay here, keep out of trouble. If only this were a safer place…" Enrico looked about, frowning. "Too many doors here, don't like it…"  
  
"Don't worry, Captain. I've got these, remember?" Kevin patted the Berettas in his twin hip holsters. "I can take care of myself," he said, quieter.  
  
Enrico looked him right in the eye – or at least, tried to, staring into his own reflection instead. "Still. If there's any trouble, call, okay? I'm going to inspect this lobby a bit more."  
  
"I thought Forest and Edward were already checking out the above floor…"  
  
"Yes. But I noticed a passage that seems to go right behind this wall…I'm going to check it out." Enrico got up, checked his pistol, and descended the short flight of stairs. Kevin just leaned back against the wall.  
  
Enrico, turning to the left, noticed a single door they hadn't checked. Cautiously, he turned the knob – locked. He noticed an engraving above the lock. A helmet. Frowning, Enrico turned, descending a short flight of cement steps. Looking down the tunnel they led to, he noticed there was a twin set of steps on the other end, probably leading back up to the lobby. He also noticed a sort of gate. On alert, he slid up to the gate.  
  
He shivered briefly. *Cold in here,* he thought. Enrico tried pushing the gated doors, but they didn't do so much as budge. Frowning, he inspected two indentations. They were octagons, with plates in the back. He noticed the plates had a slight design. He couldn't make them out, though, just looked like some swirls and –  
  
A sort of high, feminine scream suddenly came out from behind the gate. Startled, Enrico staggered back, gun coming up. Nothing came into view, but the scream continued, going on impossibly long and loud before it gradually changed, going from a high screech to a deep, lion-like roar. Enrico dropped to one knee, gun pointed at the gate, a cold sweat mixing with the rainwater on his skin. *What can possibly make a noise like that?!* The roar changed, turning to a long, throaty, almost *wet* sound, like sigh or exhalation.  
  
And as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Silence blanketed the tunnel. Enrico's wide eyes stared through the gate, but nothing appeared. Still pointing the gun with one hand, Enrico scrabbled for his radio and flicked on the switch before shouting into the speaker.  
  
Kenneth was in a long hallway by then. He stopped and leaned back against a door as he picked the radio off his belt. "Kenneth, over."  
  
Shotgun across his knee and trinkets piled about his feet, Richard's radio was at his mouth. "Copy, Richard."  
  
Edward, soaked to the bone, leaned forward, hand on the railing. "Here, over."  
  
Forest, his radio with Kenneth, heard nothing.  
  
"This is Enrico – be on the highest alert! Everyone has to know this! There is something or some*things* in this building, and they are not human! I want you to shoot on *sight,* you hear me? Everyone has to know this, there is something -very wrong- with this place! Edward, I want you to tell Forest! I – "  
  
At that moment, many things happened. 


	7. Chapter 6 All Downhill From Here

Chapter Six  
  
Kenneth felt the door swing open behind him and struggled to regain his balance. Enrico faded as the scout's arms circled, teetering for a split second before arms wrapped around his neck and he was yanked back against a human form.  
  
Kenneth cried out in surprise, squirming furiously. He caught a glimpse of a white, bald face as teeth snapped closed an inch from his neck. They would have caught his artery if he hadn't been thrashing. Furiously, he brought his gun up, hard, smashing it in the nose.  
  
It didn't slow. Desperately, Kenneth jerked his head to the side, hoping to knock the man's jaw aside with his skull. His attacker's incisors scraped along his cheek, drawing blood. The chemical expert threw himself forward, pulling out of the cannibal's grasp before slamming into the wall and falling to the floor. Kenneth rolled, coming to his feet a second later, gun coming up. The sight of the firearm didn't slow the murderer in the slightest. The STARS member fired, a hole appearing in the murderer's chest.  
  
That didn't slow it either. That was when Kenneth had a moment to see just who his attacker was.   
  
Rotted clothes hung on a drooping frame. His arms were extended in front of him, flesh drawn back from yellow fingernails. His head was bald, lumped; bare skull was revealed in spots. His eyes were yellow, clouded pupils rolling this way and that. Blood dribbled from his lips, dripped from the hole in his ribs. His skin was scraped, almost falling off him.  
  
"Romero flick" flashed across Kenneth's brain as he staggered backwards.  
  
So did "zombie".  
  
Quickly succumbing to panic, he let off a shot at the zombie's head, but was high by far. He fired again, but plaster only exploded in the ceiling. Kenneth turned and ran, sprinting down the hallway, only able to think that *that was a zombie, a real zombie I'm not trained for this, I have to get out of here!*  
  
Kenneth came to a corner, turned, and found himself in a small room. Windows were set in one wall and furniture was in the corner. He only saw this for a fraction of a second before his foot caught in the carpet, his centre of gravity was suddenly far past his feet, and he crashed to the floor. His head hit an end table as he went down.  
  
Kenneth didn't feel himself hit the floor. One second he was running full tilt, next he was on his gut, stars in his vision, moaning from the hall. All he knew now was that he had to keep ahead. He had to keep ahead, otherwise he - wouldn't.  
  
*What?* Did he have a concussion? Kenneth rolled over onto his back, seeing that the zombie was already entering the room. He lifted his pistol, firing. A section of doorless doorframe exploded right beside the zombie's head. It was pushed backwards, turning slightly, as one hit its shoulder, spraying blood.  
  
"No - get away from me. Get away! - " Kenneth's feet scrambled underneath him, searching for purchase. He rolled over on his hands, seeing a white door, his salvation, just feet away. He crawled, on hands and knees, palms leaving carpet and hitting hardwood. His fingers were reaching, just inches from the polished brass doorknob, as a steel hand wrapped itself around his left calf and yanked backwards. Kenneth was jerked back, away from the door. He tried to roll, twisted, and saw the zombie bending over, reaching for his throat. He fired - too low. The bullet hit the zombie's kneecap, tissue exploding outwards on the other side. The zombie suddenly dropped, hitting the floor, head rebounding, teeth chattering, moan still coming from the back of its throat. Freed, Kenneth leapt, landed on the doorknob, opened the door and landed halfway through the doorway. He slid the rest of himself through, swivelled, and grabbed the door. Paint cracked beneath his fingers and he swung it closed, the zombie out of sight.  
  
Suddenly in silence, Kenneth remembered to breathe. His heart was racing. He brought up his Beretta - or at least, the hand that had held it.  
  
That's when he realized he had left both the gun, and Forest's radio, back on the other side of that door.  
  
.  
  
Richard felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, listening to Enrico's hard shouts through the radio. His left hand, unconsciously, traveled to the butt of his shotgun, gripping it tightly. He slowly began to stand, forgetting the pile of junk, realizing just how heavy the air was, just how oppressive this -   
  
*Crunch.* Richard whirled, shotgun coming up. The torch illuminated feet for the shortest of moments, a crushed Christmas bulb underneath. But the circle of light was still rising, flickering over ragged clothes, stopping on a face. There was a hole in its cheek. The hair was thin and stringy. Richard stopped, eyes bulging, seeing a fly land on the decimated cheek and begin a feast. The mouth was open, revealing yellow teeth and a black tongue. The eyes were wide, milky white circles. As Richard stared, transfixed, the white eyes blinked in the sudden light.  
  
That simple act, so odd now, snapped Richard out of his reverie. His hand went on the trigger, the other pumping the shotgun. "Stop right there!" He shouted, fighting down panic. His voice - suddenly two octaves higher - sounded much calmer then he felt. "This is the police! Lie down with - "  
  
It didn't stop. Suddenly, much faster than the attacker's plodding pace, arms shot out and wrapped around Richard's neck. Unable to breathe, the communications specialist thrashed, panic swiftly flushing through his system. He was yanked towards the cannibal, too close to use the shotgun, close enough to smell its breath in his nostrils. Richard suddenly remembered when some sort of animal - he couldn't remember what - crawled under his porch in the middle of summer before dying, when he was away for the weekend. That was what the breath was like - rot and death. Richard heaved, yanked to one side and the other, and attempted to pry the rotting man's fingers off his neck. It didn't work. *So strong,* Richard thought desperately, slinging his entire body to the right. It didn't loose the iron fingers, but it moved him some inches - enough.  
  
Richard's own fingers closed about the ice pick, feeling the smooth wood of the handle underneath his palm, and swung it hard. The point stabbed into the side of the skull, piercing the bone and going in up to the handhold. The man made a sort of surprised grunt, staggering backwards.   
  
Richard broke free of his hands, ducked low, grabbed the wall and slung himself around the corner. Rebounding off the other wall, he charged forward, remembering the dresser only too late. His hips smashed into the edge of the cheap furniture, flipping both himself and it over. He hit the ground, shotgun bouncing out of his hands, going off into the ceiling. Chips of whatever the ceiling was made out of rained down on his head. Grabbing the shotgun he rolled, the circle of light landing on the cannibal -   
  
Still at a plodding pace, and coming around the corner, arms out in front of him. The ice pick still stuck out the side of his head, dark blood just beginning to dribble down. A sigh escaped his lips.  
  
*Ghoul.*  
  
Flesh-eating undead. Ghoul.  
  
Richard brought up the shotgun and fired. The ghoul's head exploded in a spray of red-black gore, slamming back against the cheap painting. He saw the ice pick come spinning out of the splash, bouncing on the floor as the headless re-corpse slumped to his knees. The circle of white light hovered like a spotlight, illuminating the body as it finally fell on its side.  
  
Richard was silent for a long time. "Oh, my god," he said, finally.  
  
.  
  
While most of the walls in the mansion were soundproofed, there was no door between the tunnel Enrico was in and the lobby. This allowed the sound of the unearthly howl to rush out of the openings to the tunnel, and assault Kevin's ears. He felt every hair on his body raise, was suddenly very cold. He struggled to stand. "Enrico!" He shouted, voice echoing back at him even higher than usual. "Enrico, what's going on? What is that?" Kevin knew the captain couldn't possibly hear him, not over the sound of the howling, but didn't care. He was going to shout for help and no logic was about to stop him. A biting pain attacked his leg as it took weight, but Kevin forced himself to ignore it, knowing something was very wrong, when the roar stopped and something on his waist started moving.  
  
Yelping, Kevin staggered back, back against the wall, and slapped ineffectually at the moving object before he realized it was his radio. It vibrated madly, sending strange sensations along his skin, and it was a few more seconds before he could get it off his belt. He remembered what Enrico had said about limited batteries and knew something was big.  
  
He thumbed on the transmitter and spat loudly into the radio, voice cracking. "This is Kevin Dooley, repeat Kevin Dooley, over!"  
  
He only caught the end of it. *" - wrong with this place, Edward, I want you to tell Forest, I -" The rest of the words were drowned out by what seemed to be a shriek from what sounded like Kenneth suddenly came through the radio. This was followed by gunshots before he was cut off, no longer transmitting. Kevin, horrific thoughts raising unbidden in his mind, pressed again on the transmit button. "This is Kevin, can you repeat the order, what did you s-"  
  
He felt the wall swing away behind him and hands clamp on to his shoulders.  
  
It was luck, really. When the hands had touched Kevin, his knees immediately gave way under him before the grip could tighten. He dropped to the floor, shrieking loudly, and rolled to the side. His radio laid beside him.  
  
"ENRICO ENRICO HELP ME ENRICO!" Kevin was screaming, hands going to his Berettas, as he was on his back and saw what had attacked him. In a split second he saw a grey corpse, torn clothes, all standing upright and coming right for him, and even in his state he paused, a sudden realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.  
  
*What the crap is a zombie doin-* The zombie dived, and Kevin brought out his Berettas, but had only time to fire once. Both bullets missed, badly, and as a hand hit his throat he was pushed down the dozen or so stairs.   
  
Kevin's shouts for the captain turned into a loud wail as his leg bumped over the steps, landing roughly on the carpet. Scrabbling, he pushed himself backwards with his hands, knowing he had to put some distance between him and the zombie. It took tried to step on the stairs but stumbled, rolling down and landing where he had been. It slowly stood, thick blood seeping out of a slash on its forehead. Kevin brought up both Berettas and shot at its face, but head shots are hard and both went wide.  
  
That's when gunshots rang out from the right, from Enrico's pistol. Classic shooter's stance, legs apart, both hands on the gun, five rounds punched through the zombie's chest, dropping it to the floor. Enrico moved forward, looking suspiciously at the prone zombie - and fired, twice more into its back. It let out a gurgle and fell still, a puddle of blood forming about it.  
  
"Are you alright?" He asked, turning to Kevin. Kevin nodded, too shocked to speak, as the captain knelt by the body and touched its crown lightly.  
  
"This skin is rotting," he breathed, quietly, but the pilot heard. "It's like its been dead for a while already. Like it's a - "  
  
"Zombie?" Kevin substituted. Enrico shot another look at him.  
  
"Where did this guy come from?" he asked, not answering Kevin's question. The pilot pointed up the stairs. Where they had thought there was a wall, part of a large painting, was an open rectangle - a doorway.  
  
.  
  
Five fingers touched the cold glass. Water streamed down the outside, but the fingertips stayed dry. A woman was in the glass; a long, black robe wrapped tightly about a tall, striking figure. Red lips on a white face, red nails on ivory hands.  
  
With a crack and a roar, the night flashed white. The woman's skin was the white of decay. The black robe was a rotting sack, the sculpted face angular bone. Fingertips and lips were dripping blood. The woman became a witch.  
  
He leapt back from the painting before the light ceased, too shocked to even gasp. His extended fingers curled into a fist, ready to fight, while his feet prepared to fly. The Beretta was brought up, pointing at the witch, light flashing off the scope's glass. Eyes widened, long hair attempted to stand, and skin shone with cold wet. The lightning faded, and the witch became a woman, but Forest would not touch the window again.  
  
Feathers suitably ruffled, the sniper did an about face and leaned on the railing. He blinked repeatedly, trying to get the image of the witch out of his mind. He had only seen it for a second, but a fleeting glance was somehow worse than viewing it in clarity. He had thought, for a split second, the witch was about to attack him.  
  
The double doors at the end of the room creaked, and Forest tensed. It was a conscious effort to keep his gun by his side as someone stepped through, only relaxing when he realized it was Edward. The pilot looked around, squinting in the dark, before turning on his gun's flashlight and shining it around the room. He flashed it across Forest's face and held it there, both men's faces lighting up.  
  
"Forest! There you are!" Seeing Forest grimace and put up an arm in front of his eyes, Edward turned the torch away from his comrade. "Vampire," he muttered, under his breath. Forest started to walk to the side, rubbing his eyes.  
  
Edward fully entered the room, closing the door behind him. He stepped in the trail of blood, traced it to the corpse just a foot away from him, and stared at it a moment before speaking.   
  
"Say, Forest, Enrico gave us a rather intense radio call. Seeing as how yours is with Kenny at the moment, I thought I should let you in on current events. He said there's something, or somethings, really weird in this place. He said they're definitely not human, and though he didn't explain, I don't think he meant dogs. I'm not really sure _what_ he meant, but anyways. Shoot on sight - on sight, Forest. We're cops. Whatever's in this mansion must have him spooked pretty bad. In any case, what's up with your friend here?" Edward turned and pointed downward at the corpse - or, at least, where it had been. Currently he was pointing at a pair of very erect legs. Confused, Edward followed the legs upward, to a straightening waist, outstretched arms, and finally the wet, rotten face of the body, which had finally finished standing and was staring right at him.  
  
"Forest, what - !" Arms shot out and grasped Edward by the shoulders, yanking him towards the corpse's maw. His gun came up uselessly, firing into the air. Forest, his back formerly to Edward, swivelled at the gunshot. His eyes widened as he saw the teammate grappling with an opponent. His gun came up - but it was impossible, Edward's attacker had pushed him against the railing and in Forest's line of fire. Before the casing from Edward's shot had hit the floor, Forest was moving, sprinting by the wall. He grabbed a statue and slung himself around.  
  
Edward was not a small man, and he wasn't foreign to fistfights ether. But the bastard was _strong,_ despite being immobile less than a minute ago. Edward struggled, saw the teeth coming again, and slammed the butt of his gun into them. Had he the angle he would have pointed the barrel into the mouth of the "corpse", but he was clasped too tightly to move far at all. The strike was powerful enough to knock out at least one tooth, but to no avail. Thrashing, and slippery from rain, he was able to get halfway out of his opponent's grasp before it regained its hold, this time holding by the back. Edward shook and kicked, but it did nothing, and he could feel its cold breath on his neck -   
  
When he saw a flash of blue to his left that was Forest. The vehicle specialist didn't even slow as he reared back a fist and swung at Edward's rotting attacker, the metal of the gun smashing hard against its temple. Without pause, he smashed the butt of the pistol down on the brow of the "corpse". It knocked its head back enough for it to release the pilot, who staggered forward and away two steps before gasping. That's when Forest stepped back, and Edward swivelled, and between the two of them blew three holes in the cannibal's chest. As dark blood flew up the walking corpse grabbed Forest by the throat and yanked him forward, teeth sinking into his right shoulder.  
  
Forest, too shocked to cry out, reared back as the teeth gnawed at his flesh. His hand came up and smacked his opponent in the throat, trying to push him away. At the same time his scoped Beretta smashed it in the jaw, as best Forest could in the situation. The cannibal was pushed away, just a few inches, enough for Forest to direct a kick into its sternum. As it was knocked back, into the doors, both STARS members raised their pistols. Four bullets from Edward and three from Forest penetrated the chest of the walking corpse before it slid to the ground, leaving a trail of red on the door, walking no more.  
  
Edward's eyes were nearly popping from his head. Gasping for breath, he pointed his gun at the stilled body, unwilling to believe it was dead. "Jesus Christ, did you see that?" he asked, rather pointlessly. "He - it - it was dead! I swear to god it was dead! How - are you okay?" He shot a concerned look to Forest, to his bleeding shoulder. Blood was running down his uniform, and Forest's hold on the bite was tight, but the sniper just waved a hand dismissively, nodding. His eyes didn't move from the corpse, if it could still be called that.  
  
"You'd better check that out when we get back," Edward continued, breath coming easier now. "Human bites, the worst, you know..." *If it was human, that is.* Edward hadn't ever seen humans with flesh rotting off them, at least not in a condition to get up and attack people, and hadn't seen humans eat ten bullets before dying either. He cautiously poked the body with his foot, nearly firing into its crumpled chest when the head rolled over from the push. Edward looked up at Forest.  
  
"So, ah...I guess that's all I wanted to say...keep your guard up and shoot on sight. Keep in touch, I'll be where I was, and, uh, good hearing from you." He smiled weakly, turned and exited the double doors. Forest watched him go. 


	8. Chapter 7 Book of Curse

Chapter Seven  
  
Torrents of rain plunged from the sky, soaking the two men. It drenched their clothes, saturating them within seconds. There was no light, until the lightning flashed, striking something near the mansion. Thunder rumbled, nearly deafening the two. The man in front turned on his light, turning thousands of droplets into sparkling diamonds before they passed through the beam. But the lead man seemed not to reassured; his beam illuminated about five feet of the large courtyard, and they were outside the mansion.  
  
Something slid loudly in the mud behind him, causing Enrico to swivel and point the torch at the sound. A section of Kevin's yellow vest shone.  
  
"I slipped," he said, simply.  
  
"Are you sure you're alright? Don't make me order you to allow me to help." Enrico's voice was gruff, but at the same time cautious. His ears were perked, listening for attack.  
  
"Nah, nah, I'm okay. Keep yourself free, in case any of those dogs notice we're out of the house."  
  
"I don't think we're out of the house, or its perimeter. I think it's a courtyard. Hear how our voices echo?" Kevin in fact could not hear his voice echo, not over the pounding rain, but trusted the Captain's judgement. "But there's something else."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Graves."  
  
That was worth investigation. Kevin hobbled forward, following Enrico's circle of light, seeing a slab of carved stone. ALIAS, was carved into its face. Kevin looked up at Enrico, long shadows across his face. They looked like they were frowning. Kevin frankly wanted to frown too. These people had time to dig graves and carve markers? That not only meant a lot of time, but some intelligent thought. There were more things, it seemed, than zombies here. Smarter things. More dangerous things.  
  
As if on cue there came something under their feet, more a rumble than a sound, but almost like some animal roar. They thought. It was faint, and they were not sure if it had ever occurred. Maybe they had imagined it.  
  
Neither of them thought so. Enrico turned to his comrade. "Kevin...stay here. I'm going to check out this area. If anything's wrong, call me." Enrico disappeared into the rain.  
  
The captain's eyes studied what area was revealed by the flashlight. Mud, fence, rain, mud, grave, fence, mud. His grey moustache dripped. His hair was soaked. The rain seeped through his vest and was cold against his chest, his stomach. Water of a different sort dripped from under his arms. The path ended abruptly at a large tomb, the wet stone shining brightly in the white light, against the surrounding black and whatever it held. Its front was decorated with a cherub, or cupid, or something. One of the half naked kids with a bow and arrow. As he aimed the torch downward, he saw a rectangular outline – a door.  
  
"Hey, Kevin! Come see this."  
  
The co-pilot took one step forward, smashed his injured leg into a slab of rock and instantly collapsed with a cry. Landing on his side in the mud, he grasped the bloody bandage, feeling waves of pain passing through his system. A high, sad whine escaped gritted teeth. Within a second Enrico was at his side. "Are you all right?"  
  
Kevin was by no means all right. "I'm FINE – " he hissed, feeling the pain beginning to abate. "Just – just keep going, all I need is a second."  
  
Enrico kneeled and extended his arms. "Kevin – "  
  
"I just need a minute!"  
  
"Than only for a minute," Enrico ended, gently. "You'd do the same for me."  
  
Kevin resigned himself to the inevitable. Enrico's left arm slipped under Kevin's legs, the right arm wrapping around his back. Enrico lifted with his knees, Kevin cradled against his chest like a child. Having to reassure himself that he was not relieved, that he was not glad to be carried about, Kevin wrapped his forearm around the back of the older man's wet neck. "Back to the stairs," Enrico muttered.  
  
"Wait," Kevin said, his voice a gasp. "What did you see?"  
  
Enrico tilted his head. "Over there." Kevin used his free hand to free one of the Berettas and flip on the torch. The giant slab of stone shone brilliantly. "Whassat?" he asked.  
  
The arrowhead was missing from the carving, only a triangular hole where it should have been. "Can you take me over there?" Enrico did so, and Kevin fingered the arrowhead hole curiously. "This is weird..."  
  
A faint sound came out of the darkness; it may have been a snarl, or a yell, or a bark. It may have been rain. It may have been nothing. Enrico peered around, then tilted his head and whispered in Kevin's ear.  
  
"I think we'd better go back," was his statement, voice low.  
  
Kevin's thin arm strained. "Wait, wait, just...one..." Kevin could feel a couple of buttons in the depression and attempted to hold them down. After two seconds a grating sound came from beneath the two men, causing Enrico to take a step backwards in alarm. The door opened, stone steps leading down below the altar, an unknown distance to a rocky floor. A red glow and the sound of clanking machinery came up from the depths.  
  
The two men looked at each other.  
  
Walking down the steps was hard. They were unevenly cut and Enrico couldn't see them past Kevin. They had to take it slowly, footfalls echoing in the narrow, claustrophobic stairway, both men looking around them in an amazed state. The sound of turning gears swallowed up the footsteps eventually, the red glow increasing in intensity, until the tunnel looked as if made of fire and brimstone.  
  
When Enrico's feet finally hit the bottom floor, the red light was bright enough to see by. It was also very warm. "Let me down," Kevin said, quietly, Enrico lowering him to the floor. Kevin limped, hand on the wall, to the side. Statues of four faces were set into the rock. The co-pilot tilted his head, thin fingers tracing along their surfaces. Enrico could see his lips moving silently.  
  
After pausing at the last face for a second, Kevin turned to face the Captain. The mirrored visor glowed a shone red. "What's down there?"  
  
The cavern continued around one corner, turning around a jutting wall of rock. Enrico, eyes narrowed for the first sign of danger, was ready to pull his gun at a moment's notice. But there was nothing. A grate in the wall revealed a roaring fire, the source of the light, and a coffin hung from the ceiling by chains. Enrico had just relaxed when he heard a sliding on the dusty floor behind him.  
  
He whirled, hand going to his holstered pistol. It was Kevin, leaning on the wall. "Anything useful?"  
  
Enrico shook his head, but Kevin was already looking past him. "What's that?" At the end of the cavern, a pedestal housed a black book. Enrico walked over, frowned, and picked it up. He tried to open the pages but couldn't. The cover seemed stuck closed, for some reason.  
  
Kevin hobbled over. "Can I see that?" Enrico handed him the book, and Kevin ran a finger over the sides. He inspected the cover – "Book of Curse." Nothing out of the ordinary. He flipped it over in his hands, noticing a glint of metal on the back. Stopping it in his fingers, he turned the back cover upward and plucked the piece of metal. It was a key. Several more keys clattered to the floor, freed. Passing the book to Enrico, Kevin knelt and swept them off the floor, the metal glowing red in the firelight. He inspected the teeth. "These are all the same," he said, with an air of surprise.  
  
Enrico was more interested in the book; the covers were now unstuck. It opened to a particular page, as if opened to the spot several times before. "A mask that sees no evil..." he said, causing Kevin to look up. The thrashing flames threw shadows about his face. The captain continued. "A mask that hears no evil...a mask that speaks no evil...a mask that sees, smells, hears and tastes no evil...when the faces fall into place, the evil will awaken."  
  
Enrico looked alarmed. Kevin slowly got to his feet, keys still clenched in an orange fist. "Captain," he started, speaking slowly and quietly, "do you realize what that means?"  
  
"...No."  
  
"Those faces set into the wall back there, at the bottom of the stairs – they all had something missing."  
  
"Eyes, ears, noses and mouths?"  
  
"Yeah...actually, Captain, I think this whole thing is a puzzle. Like the keys, hidden in the back of this book...I think we have to find something to do with masks, and do something to those statues with them. Actually...I wouldn't be surprised if this mansion is going to be filled with puzzles. This book was held closed with electromagnets, you see these here? We had to find the keys to open it. The way this whole thing is going..." Kevin trailed off, the sentence saying enough even when unfinished.  
  
The next moment was only filled with the sound of clanking machinery. "The situation's gone from bad to bizarre," said Enrico, finally. He looked at Kevin. "This place has only one entrance or exit. I want you to stay here. I'll get the others to try and find these masks, and tell them there may be other weird twists in this location. Contact us if there's any problems."  
  
Kevin saluted. "Yes, sir."  
  
Enrico looked down at him. "Don't call me sir, Kevin. I work for my money."  
  
Kenneth's survival knife slid easily out of its pouch. He raised it, in one tight fist, and held it at head height. His bicep was tense and quivering. After getting to his feet, he inspected his surroundings – a narrow hallway, light peeking around a turn at its end. He pressed himself back against the door, steadying himself.  
  
Behind him, the door suddenly kicked forward, Kenneth's nerves throwing him forward. Spun on his feet, knife in a stabbing position, eyes wide. The door was still closed, but a low moan came from the other side. It suddenly shook again, banging loudly, causing Kenneth to gasp as he took an involuntary step backward. He felt sweat trickle down his back and under his arms. The door banged again, and Kenneth saw a crack appear in the flimsy, flimsy wood. Kenneth turned and ran, as fast as he could, to the end of the hallway and took the turn. The hallway continued until an empty doorway, leading to a dimly lit room with peeling wallpaper. Kenneth passed through the doorway, jumped to the side to avoid a birdcage-housing table and tripped over something on the ground. He hit the floor, hard, winding himself, as the object he tripped over rolled under his foot. He flipped to his back, fearfully, as the object fell across him – a corpse, flesh pruned and mummified. He screamed aloud; a high, piercing cry that echoed off the walls. Never mind that the corpse wasn't moving; never mind that the door had stopped banging. To Kenneth, the sky was falling.  
  
"Get away from me – get the hell away from me – GET THE FUCKING HELL AWAY FROM ME!!!" Kenneth's arm stabbed downward, repeatedly, the point plunging into the corpse's skull and throat over and over. He then threw the body off of him, not knowing whether it was dead and really not caring. He leapt to his feet, going from a prone position to erect in one movement, and ran full tilt at the stairs. He hit the banister, flipped over, and swung awkwardly onto the steps. He thundered up the wood planks, dust drifting down. He turned and hit the second floor, the swinging light playing hell with shadows. Kenneth saw one such leap of shade swing out to his left and threw himself in the opposite direction. Hitting a wall, he stumbled and hit another door, opening it, falling through and pulling it shut behind him.  
  
Kenneth staggered backwards, still facing the door. His hoarse wheezes ripped through the air, his bloody knife held clenched in one fist. Backing up, he saw a break in the wall appear to his left – another hallway – and took it. He saw a door in front of him. He jumped, grabbed the knob – and it didn't open. It was locked, probably from the other side. He jumped back as if shocked with electricity and saw something move to his right. He stabbed the knife brutally, saw the image explode, and realized he had just attacked a mirror. The shards of glass had slashed his right arm, but he hadn't noticed. A few jagged, but mirrored bits clung to the wooden frame, and in them he saw a fat, bald man reach for him.  
  
Kenneth screamed again as he whirled, knife in a wide arc. Blood sprayed to the side as the blade bit into flesh, staining yellow wallpaper. The zombie seemed unfazed, arms grasping Kenneth by the shoulder and jaws coming forward. Kenneth threw up an arm to shield his face and cried out when teeth bit into his forearm. The knife came up, stabbing the zombie in the side of the head, plunging into its throat, sinking between its ribs. Eventually it moaned and Kenneth threw it off him, leaping over squirming man as he crashed to the floor. He was off like a shot, coming around a corner, seeing another mirror, turning another corner and crashing his considerable weight directly into another man. The two fell as one to the floor. This one was thinner, more fit; in a more advanced state of decay as Kenneth could feel maggoty flesh squirm beneath his fingers. The rotting arms immediately wrapped around his back, the lipless jaw in a sick grin before flashing up towards his close face, as if for a kiss. Kenneth howled, snapping his head back just in time, teeth snapping together with a hollow sound. The point of the survival knife dug in below its chin, stabbing through, pinning the jaw shut and the tongue against the roof of his mouth. It continued to try to bite him, closed teeth wiping his teeth and leaving tracks of slimy saliva on his cheek. Kenneth brought fists down on the zombie, pounding its face, crushing its features. He pulled out the knife and stabbed the zombie In its eyes, its nose, its temples, all reason lost in a sudden rush of fear, the impulse to kill or be killed. The point stabbed through one of its smoky, white eyes; the eyeball tore as he twisted the blade in a state of panic. The zombie, unknowing, continued to moan and grasp at him despite the blood flowing over its cheeks. Kenneth pulled out the knife and jumped for the closest door – locked, also. He felt something pull back on his foot and turned, nearly falling.  
  
"Oh, God!" The one-eyed zombie was trying to bite through his boot, and the bald, obese creature was shambling around the corner. He kicked, breaking its grip, and went for the only other door he could find. It was also locked – but saw a switch underneath the knob. He flipped it, unlocking the door, and turned the polished brass knob. The door opened. He took one step, felt the hand around his heel, and fell, hitting the wood floor hard. He kicked at the door, getting it closed just as the bloated man was filling the doorway. He heard the door thump, but it closed.  
  
Kenneth just laid there, watching the door. He didn't move for a while after that. 


	9. Chapter 8 Photograph

Chapter Eight

The circle of light hovered over the door's lock. Then, the light moved to a brilliant key, held in gentle fingers. The metal shone brightly in the darkness of the landing. A minute before, it (as well as one bloody ghoul's corpse) had been lying in a pile of its brethren at the bottom of the lobby stairs; a scrawled note pinned underneath.

_found keys, take 1. b on guard for puzzles in manson and n e thing weird esp masks. leave masks here plz - Enrico_

Both the lock and key were embossed with the basic shape of a sword. Just to test, Richard tried to turn the lock - it was locked. He tried to plug the key, and it fit. Turning it, the door opened easily.

Richard was just about to pass through the doorway when the room went white and a boom was heard. He swivelled, hair standing on end, staring intently out the window. Water flowed down the glass, and nothing more.

_It was lightning,_ Richard told himself, catching his breath. _Only lightning._ He had to get out of this lobby; the second floor was even creepier than the first. The corpse downstairs didn't exactly put him at ease either. Shaking himself off, he passed through the doorway and closed it behind him.

His first impression of the hallway was that of its being red, almost as if the walls had been slathered with blood. It was only red paint, though, and matching wine red carpet. He noticed there was light; he looked upwards, noting a light bulb that appeared to be about ten watts. Maybe twelve... Still, it was enough to see by, and Richard turned off his shotgun's torch. He moved forward, sniffing the air as he did so. It was musty, stuffy, but something else...death? Rot? Maybe, but he couldn't tell. He moved forward, footfalls soft.

_Heel, toe, heel, toe..._ Richard's steps barely even rustled the carpet. He passed between a dresser and a chair, both dribbled with more red, and heard something crush beneath his feet. He stepped back, and looked down. Pieces of some sort of china doll were on the ground, the body in one piece but the head crushed. He knelt, curious, and picked at the headless doll. He looked underneath the dresser, felt, and pulled out another doll. This one had a head, but its skin had somehow been turned a deep red, as if some of the wall's colour had dripped onto it.

Richard frowned. One without a head, and otherwise normal. One with the head still on, but turned crimson.

_Be on guard for anything weird._ Was this some sort of a message? Richard's lips moved, silently, his brain working. Very odd, very odd - maybe the head had something to do with it, or maybe the smashed head was a genuine accident and the message was elsewhere, maybe he was looking for clues where there were none...

"_Uuuunnnnghhhh...." _ Richard's head snapped up, frowning. He quickly but quietly got to his feet, shotgun in his arms. Creeping along the wall, he reached the corner and peeked slowly around. The hall turned, and turned again; at the end stood a dimly lit figure. He was still, not heading for Richard, but definitely a ghoul. He moaned again. Richard slid around the corner like a snake, hugging the wall. Would it be possible to slip past unnoticed...? Richard didn't know how much ammo he had left, but probably not enough to kill everything in the mansion. Ghouls tend to go in packs...

Richard was at this point thoroughly convinced he was dealing with honest-to-god ghouls, necromancers and all. After all, he had objective evidence, didn't he? Richard liked to consider himself adaptable; he had never believed in the supernatural, but if it came up and bit him on the face he could change his views. He was moving down the middle of the hallway now, staring at a ghouls' back - it was rotting, it was dead, it was walking. It was a ghoul. Which meant, of course, some sort of black magic, and what if there were other demonic entities? What sort of ghoul was he looking at here? And -

A thin, wooden table was set against the wall. Richard's right hip brushed against it, catching a corner of a rectangular object. The object was pushed until it was half off the table, teetering for a second, before it slipped off and landed heavily on the toe of Richard's right boot.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!" Richard whirled, cursing more in surprise than pain, as his shotgun came to bear on the object. He was sure he had been bitten by some sort of imp or other small creature. When he saw he was pointing his gun at a wooden mount he felt somewhat sheepish; however, this feeling passed when he heard a loud groan to his left and a shadow fall across the injured foot.

Richard shot a look. The ghoul was shambling towards him, arms reaching expectantly. There was also a door, about halfway between the two men, and Richard was leaping for the knob before he even had time to think. He landed on the polished brass ball, slamming into the door, and bounced off. In the second before he landed on the floor, and the back of his head hit the opposite wall, he saw a shield stencilled on the metal above the lock. Then stars flooded the world.

Richard shook his head quickly, clearing his vision slightly, and looked up. The ghoul was reaching downward, gnarled fingers clutching, white eyes staring hungrily. As Richard stared, a droplet of saliva rolled out past its peeling lips and landed on his cheek.

Richard kicked, one foot coming up and connecting with the ghoul's hip. It was knocked back, half turning, and fell. Richard felt the breath go out of him as the weight landed on his ribs, amazingly heavy. The rotting flesh sagged against his own, leaving wet smears and a stench that made his stomach turn to water. It breathed, a rattling wheeze that made him gag and his eyes spurt tears. What was worse was that its right arm slid around and its fingers wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air supply completely.

_Christ hell this is bad - _ Richard struggled to hold his mind in a logical state. Things were going to shit, he had to think, he had to think _clearly,_ there were ghouls and all yes but it was still reality and he could think his way out of it and -

The ghoul's head reared back, and then snapped forward, and Richard could see it was going straight for his throat. It was going to rip out his artery, and Richard wasn't Rebecca or Kenneth but he could tell that he wouldn't be so great after that. And for the one split second when time froze, and the world stood absolutely motionless, when Richard had an eternity to think - that was when the single thought _oh crap _ reverberated in his mind over and over until the moment ended and the teeth came down.

On a subconscious level, his instincts thought for him. Richard's hands, both of them, shot out and clutched the ghoul's windpipe in an iron grip as it was holding him. It was amazingly strong; even with both elbows locked it could nearly overpower him just by trying to tilt its head. Its teeth snapped, bit at him, inches from his neck. Richard could see dark spots around the edges of his vision and knew he needed air, immediately if not before. Then he realized his legs were free; better than that, Richard was very flexible. Specifically, he was flexible enough to snap his legs back and lock his heels under his hands, at the top of the ghoul's sternum. In one strong heave, he flung it off of him.

The ghoul's head cracked into the opposite door, motionless for just a moment, whether it stayed motionless Richard didn't know; as he scooped up his shotgun he made a dash down the hallway, turning corners until he found another door. He slammed against it, but it was locked as well. He shot a look over his shoulder and saw the ghoul shambling around the corner. He continued to run until he made the end of the hallway. He was beginning to fall into the edge of panic, just seeing the one remaining door and knowing it was his last chance. He threw himself at it and turned the knob - opening it. His momentum flung him clear through the doorway and he landed on his side, legs still sticking out into the hall. He got to his feet and made a quick check around the doorframe - ghoul not that far back. He pulled his head into the room and slammed the door.

Richard checked the room, found it clear, staggered over to a chair and collapsed into the soft leather. He raised his shotgun and brought it down on the desk, then buried his head in his hands. He was okay...just a little tired. He managed to save his ammo, but he wondered if it was worth it. He couldn't pull that trick off very many times, he was sure, but his ammo was limited... To check, he pulled the magazines out of his vest.

Oh, wow. He must have spent more outside than he thought. Two ten-round magazines, and the nine in his gun. Not a lot of rounds to blow, not given the dogs he saw outside...

Richard took a moment to survey his surroundings. A fairly well furnished room; like someone's library or somesuch. He could see some books, some tables, soft light...the table he was directly in front of had a chess board. Across the room was another desk, some cluttered papers upon it. Actually, the whole room was somewhat messy, if not spectacularly; a few books on the floor, a couple of pens rolling across the desk. But the room itself was still soothing.

Reluctantly getting to his feet, Richard inspected the opposite desk. There was an open diary, but Richard inspected all the pages to find them blank. Something glittering, under a 60 watt lamp, caught his eye. He reached over and picked up a whistle - he was pretty sure it was a dog whistle. There was also a photograph underneath, which fluttered off the table and landed upside down on the floor. Richard, curious, picked it up and read the back.

It was a moment later that he landed heavily in the chair. _This _was interesting.

_Alias,_

_Hey, man, glad to see you've come back, thought you'd disappeared somewhere, anyways, Okay, remember Char Scratch that, you wouldn't. Okay, remember when that big Cerberus dog attacked you and Steve? Or should I say attacked Steve because remember how Steve may never walk again? Remember how you threw the dog off of him without a scratch and saved his life, you know?_

_Okay, that's Charon, you probably remember feeding him, which brings me to my next point, Spencer, aka Supernazi managed to get a collar on that mutt somehow, and that is a collar we ALL want (I won't get into the details here, ask the others). Supernazi said if we can get it off the dog we're welcome to it, brings me to my next point:_

_Okay, given your little adventure with Steve-o, I think you are literally the only man on EARTH that can get at that damn mutt and live. So you're asking what's in it for you I guess, well, first of all you get to stick it to Supernazi, show him up and he can't do a thing about it!_

_Okay, if you want something REALLY nice, the guys and gals are chipping in and finding what you may want._

_Talk to me,_

_Da Jonesy (Brenda Jones)_

Very interesting.


	10. Chapter 9 Dark Waters

Chapter Nine 

The dark room stank of blood, of rot and death. The closed space, sound-absorbent wood walls and lack of light gave it a hugely claustrophobic feel. Forest could see his white hand in front of his face, but blessed little else. He turned around, giving one last look to the statue of the naked woman. Why a naked woman? Wasn't there one person that liked guys in this mansion? Forest sneered and looked back to the door.

The key entered.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

It was like going into another world. Specifically, a 120-watt lit, marble-walled hallway with high ceilings and loud echoes. Forest took one step forward, stunned expression on his face, and heard the sound of his footfall bounce off the polished white marble. There was a definite sterile look to the hallway.

Forest continued to walk, thinking as he did. Mostly about the type of people who must have lived in this place - stupid upper crust. Not that rich people were by necessity stupid, but when you have an entire room made of marble and not think to put a path to your home, it says something. To Forest, everything said something.

He turned the corner, the smooth marble being interrupted unfashionably by a dark wooden desk pushed up against the wall. What caught his eye was a dark rectangle on its top. Forest frowned, light of recognition in his eye, and jogged over. It was a 9mm Parabellum magazine. He scooped it up, cupping it in his hand - a mansion out in the middle of nowhere, and there was a handgun magazine just lying around?

Forest's reaction should be obvious.

The sniper looked up, noting the sole door. He slipped the magazine into his pocket - Bravos only carried two spare magazines for their weapons, and he may need the ammo - causing a clinking as he did so. Forest looked down, startled, and realized he was still wearing the belts of high explosive grenade rounds. He shook his head and passed through the door.

Rickety, dusty, creepy hallway. Enter Forest, stage left. Forest looked about, eyes narrow, and cautiously advanced forward. The twisting hall continued, but he grabbed the first door he could see. Best to do this in order - he certainly did not want to get hit the back. The door led to a bathroom.

It was a terrible mess. The floor was wet with black water, the mirror was cracked, and the sink was stained. They were also out of toilet paper. Forest eagle-eyed the bathtub, noting the black water. Forest had not gotten to his position by being careless, or stupid. It would be pretty easy to hide something in there...

But did he really want to do it? Forest stared at the tub out of the corner of his eye, as if expected it to snap and confess. Eventually Forest found a plunger in the corner, its long, wooden handle spattered with spots of brown. Dirt, or dried blood? Forest grabbed it by its rubber plunger and pointed the handle towards the surface of the water. Pointing his gun at the water with his other, good, hand, he stabbed downward, then immediately grimaced. He threw the plunger away - the wet mark on the handle showing it had only gone down two inches.

Forest reached under the water and felt cloth brush his fingers. Quickly, he yanked; using one hand he pulled an entire corpse out of the tub, water pouring off of its sopping clothes. His gun was trained on it the entire time, and he backed up immediately, waiting for it to get up so he could -

Its head was caved in.

Forest lowered his Beretta. It was dead. Its entire skull looked as if it had been crushed under some heavy heel. But why would a corpse be...

Forest leaned against the sink, forebrow furrowing. Wait. Maybe...

What if the people at the mansion - that _had _been at the mansion - hadn't been the murderers at all? Maybe they were only caught in the middle. Maybe these zombies had been from outside, something unrelated. Maybe this was just a sort of vacation home for some guy's family. Yeah...so zombies show up, and start kicking the crap out of people. Say the people manage to kill one - hitting it with a hammer, or a crowbar, or something - it doesn't matter. Crushing its skull, either way. But this is early on. Maybe it's the first, or something, but they have to do something with the body. Even if they're holed up in the mansion, they can't leave a corpse out to rot...but they can't bury it. Not in the dictionary sense of burial. Simply no time, simply can't go outside - whatever. Point being, they bury it in the tub...yes. Dirty the water to hide the body, stop the smell to an extent. Poor man's burial. And the handgun magazine - yes, the people were making a stand, setting up weapons around the mansion, ammo...

Forest was by this time exiting the bathroom, heading back to the lobby. He had to talk to someone about this. He had only been in the bathroom for ninety-one seconds.

_I need air, but I can't go up. He may be there. Did I hear him leave? Could I hear him leave? I need air, I want air, cravings bad. I can't go up yet, I can't, I need air, my lungs hurt, my side hurts, I hurt, I need air I can't go up i need air need air need air needairneedairneedairairairairairAIRGETAIRNOW_

Billy Coen shot out of the bathtub, gasping for oxygen, vision going black. He wheezed, choked, and grabbed the side of the tub, feeling consciousness leaving him, and struggled to stay up. After a long second he won, gripping the edges of reality as life-giving air came back to him.

Well, at least the STARS - whichever one it was, Billy wasn't up on his nowhere-town trivia - was gone. Thank god he hadn't checked the tub for anything else - the marine had had to hide underneath the body in the tub when he heard someone coming. Billy had known it was a crappy plan, but he didn't have much to work with here. Water ran down his face, out of his hair. He looked over at the corpse on the floor. He was totally out of ammo, thank christ the zombie had fallen when it had come for him. He had to be the hero that killed zombies with his foot, now did he?

He started to pull himself out of the tub, but growling when a sharp agony stabbed him in the side. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself out, slipping on the wet tile floor.

He was hurt all over, but his side was the worst. Blood still dripped, now. It was the trip to the mansion, really; it was a hell of a run through hostile territory and all he had was a sidearm. He'd been bitten and slashed and clawed and pecked - but at least his arms, legs, and chest had clotted, but the bite in his side was a hell of a hit -

_Damn fucking dog clamped on to my side, fucking eating me when I had to grapple with some rotting shit-eater, got to my left kidney before I could get around to killing him - _His left hand was clutching his side. _Doesn't affect you, Billy, you're a marine, you're a machine, a tank._ He could feel slashed muscle and what he thought just may be an internal organ under his fingers. He opened the bathroom door and staggered out.

Billy could handle this. If he could only get to a safe place, someplace calm - somewhere with no zombies or dogs or crows or STARS trying to bring him back to custody. He just need a few minutes to tend to himself. He kept his right hand on the wall, supporting himself, as he stumbled down the hallway. He went in the opposite direction of the STARS guy; he could see his footprints, left from tracking through the spilled water in the bathroom. He passed by a large amount of glass windows, ignoring them. He had passed this way before. He came upon another door, which he had earlier skipped, and opened it. It opened inwards, towards the marble room.

Small marble room. Not that great, wasn't even something to sit on. There was a second door, though, which he tried. It opened into what could be called a living room. It was dusty and dreary, faded couches and springless chairs. But it caused Billy's face to light up in joy, a huge smile crossing his face - because on the opposite wall was a shotgun.

He lurched across the room, half-sure it had to be a hallucination, but when his fingers closed around the stock it was real. It was a real weapon, he knew, not like a boot; something that could kick ass all over. He pulled it out of the handles on the wall. It felt good in his hands, cool and comforting. He moved as best he could over to the door. With something like this he could grab some territory, take it and hold it, long enough to take care of himself...

When he opened the door, he was grinning broadly. Even when some dust and pebbles fell on his shoulder, it didn't faze him. But when he looked up, curious as to the pebbles' origin, his expression changed.

_Man, that's a low ceiling, _he thought. _Was it always like that? Oh, wait, it's lowering. Hey, what the hell it's LOWERING?!_ Billy's eyes went wide as the ceiling, however many tons it must have been, came down to meet him. He was going to be crushed!

Billy leapt for the opposite door. It didn't open. He tried again - same result. Billy didn't know if he could break the lock, but wasn't about to try. He dived for the first door, checking above him. The ceiling was almost at head level! Two more inches and he wouldn't be able to open the door -

This door, luckily, was not locked. The door swung open, and Billy scrambled inside. He slammed the door behind him, momentum carrying forward to fall onto a dusty chair. He lay there, stunned, and all he could think of was: _I was almost a Bill sandwich!_

After a second, he heard a loud _thump_ past the door. Billy rose, hobbled to the door and tried it. It wouldn't open. No, of course not, now the ceiling was blocking the door and he was trapped in here with his goddamned scattergun. Billy was _pissed._ "Stupid shit!" He screamed, kicking the door, over and over, feeling pain lance out all over his body but not caring. It was total fucking bullshit, just tempt him with an honest to god scattergun and then BOOM -

A simple test showed that replacing the scattergun would reset the ceiling, which Billy expected. "Shit christ motherfucking _hell,"_ he swore, grabbing his mullet in frustration. Give him a scattergun, one hell of a weapon, and then screw him. He couldn't take it anywhere, can't go...

Billy's eyes opened. His hands slowly lowered from his hair. His face went from that of rage, to that of a man receiving a revelation. Who said he had to go anywhere? Blood from his side trickled down his soaked jeans, but Billy didn't notice. He had everything here. No zombies, a calm place to tend to his injuries, enough raw bits of crap to make some bandages...and, if no shotgun, still a weapon. He could hear everything that went on outside. All he had to do is take the shotgun off the wall, and everything coming his way went squish.

Billy moved over towards the couch, grabbing something along the way - a bedsheet or a curtain or something, it didn't matter - and settled into the leather. He grinned as he tore the virgin white cloth.

Forest's military boots thumped in the echoing marble hallway. His mind was on the possibility of survivors, maybe, a scared few people still holding out against zombies. Maybe some that could tell them when this began, why it happened, and where was its origin. Forest rounded the corner, cracking his knuckles, crystal eyes narrowed and far off. That would do very nicely, the mission was no longer some search and destroy. Enrico would be -

The sound of breaking glass came suddenly from up ahead. Forest's head snapped up, eyes focusing on reality, thin eyebrows coming down in a sharp frown. He moved forward towards the origin of the sound; the next window.

It wasn't broken, but it was in bad shape. A spiderweb of crack lines fanned out from the centre, ready to fall into separate shards at a moment's notice. He attempted to peer through. Dark night, some rain pattering on the glass, but -

That's when a much louder sound of shattering glass came from right behind him, the other window. He also heard something heavy land on the marble floor. By the time a trio of growling barks split the air Forest was already turning, Beretta ready to kill.

He saw a flash of red and fired - a piece of marble was blasted off the wall. Forest couldn't hit a damn thing if he wasn't looking through a scope. The red streak - one of the dogs - flew at him, clamping down on his arm. Its weight pulled Forest forward, but he stayed on his feet. He could feel it gnawing on his arm.

Forest attempted to throw it off but failed. It yanked him forward again, and Forest yanked back. It still stayed clamped on. On Forest's third try he slung it around, putting his weight to good use, and threw the dog off him. It slammed into a wall and bounced off. Forest's pistol came up, caught red and black in its glass scope, and roared twice. The dog's side burst in a spray of red on two separate points. It was thrown back, yelped, and began to come forward. Forest dashed for the exit.

As he passed under the cracked window, it exploded. Another dog hit him in the head, throwing him to the side. He landed on his back, the dog on top of him, and began diving for his throat. Forest bucked and thrashed, throwing off its aim, but it was a very short-term procedure. He clamped his left hand around its jaw, held it, and brought up his Beretta. Four rounds tore through the dog's lungs, and it dropped instantly.

He rolled to his feet, heard barking very close behind him, and whirled, shooting as he did. Again, two rounds blasted bits out of the marble walls, and then his gun clicked. Nothing. It clicked twice more as he tried to pull the trigger, but the dog seemed unimpressed.

It latched again onto his arm, blood coating its teeth. This time, however, Forest didn't throw him off. Rather, he brought up one foot. The dog was blind as the boot came down, hitting it in the head, knocking it off its prize. The boot came down again, before it could move, crushing its bones. The third hit crushed its ribcage, and the fourth stomp pulverized its skull and silenced it forever.

Forest slumped back against the wall, eyes darting about like a scared finch. All was silent. He yanked the empty magazine out of the gun and threw it at the window. It bounced off the frame, landing among spent casings that rolled across the floor. Pawing at his vest, he found his ammo - three magazines. Two STARS issue and one from the dresser. He slapped one into the pistol, loading a round into the chamber. He peered at the other two small, so temporary magazines. He closed his hand about them, hiding them completely, disappearing so easily.

He looked upward, at the high marble roof, running a hand over his mullet. Bits of glass, tangled in the hair, fell to the ground.


	11. Chapter 10 Stairway to Heaven

Chapter Ten 

Edward Dewey kept his gun trained on the crumpled corpse. It wasn't moving, no. It appeared to be dead. But it had seemed dead before, as well, right before getting up and attacking him and Forest, so he knew it couldn't be trusted. But he wasn't here to menace corpses.

He was at the door. There were two doors, actually, but in his previous stay in the room he had tried both. The first one, closer to the double doors that led to the second floor balcony, was locked from the opposite side - no way to unlock that, not from his end. The second - the one he was at now - was locked as well, but it at least had a keyhole...

Again, Edward shone his light on the lock. Again, the engraving of a sword shone back at him.

The door unlocked with his new key, provided by the good Enrico. It swung open. A stench of corrosion and death hit Edward's nostrils, causing him to flinch. He wasn't strongly familiar with the smell...it still caused him to gag. He put the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth and stepped through.

It was a very short pass, walls a dusty white. There was a door opposite, but Edward ignored it. If his sense of direction was correct, and he was sure it was, it led to the rain-soaked outdoors balcony he had been on before. What he was more interested in was the way the walls opened to the right. He moved cautiously for the opening, running his hands along the wallpaper. It opened into a poorly maintained room, a stairway leading downwards. Across, past the stairs, was another hall; with a couple of doors and a zombie to match.

Edward didn't have ammo to waste. He had used too much on the dogs outside; he was left with a full mag in his Beretta and four rounds to spare. He made for the stairs, but there was railing all around that only opened on the other side - no matter. He grabbed it and vaulted over, landing on a section of floor before the stairs. The zombie had hardly moved, only shambling dumbly towards him. Edward grinned. "So long, dumbass," he muttered, as he turned and dropped down the stairs -

right into the grip of another zombie. It was shambling upwards, arms reaching for him, dangerously close. Edward tried to back up, but his feet forgot he was on stairs and bumped against the steps in a futile fashion. The zombie reared back its head, then _vomited_ on Edward; steaming green bile flowing out of its mouth and splattering over the pilot. It splashed about his boots, causing them to slip - Edward smacked into the zombie, and they both tumbled down the stairs.

The world was a whirling kaleidoscope of light and dark, white walls and brown wood, as he felt himself smack both with every bit of his body. He bounced off the tumbling corpse more than once. He felt himself roll across his right arm, and the gun in his hand bucked as it discharged. He could fell the bullet whistle by his left ear, nicking it just barely. The kickback threw the pistol out of his numb fingers. The bottom of the trip was as sudden as the start - he bounced off a wall, landed on his side, and felt hotness. The vomit was beginning to burn.

Something metal slid along the wooden floor. Edward saw it was his Beretta, on its side and slowing to a stop six feet away. He moved forward six inches - then stopped as cold, groping hands grabbed him by the belt and yanked him backwards. The undead man heaved itself upward and landed heavily on his back, pressing his chest into the floor. Edward felt the vomit-splashed skin slam down hard and howled aloud. He felt a peeling, dry hand grab him by the forehead and pull, forcing his head back. He teeth found his shoulder and bit down.

Edward could still see his gun, at least three feet beyond an outstretched arm. Edward rolled, feeling the zombie go under him and again on top, until he felt his palm brush the cool metal. It seemed to jump into his hand of its own accord. The zombie pawed at him like an insistent lover, pulling at his hair and Kevlar vest. Blood flowed from his shoulder, teeth working into flesh and muscle. Edward bucked, trying to throw the zombie off him, and slammed an elbow into its forehead. The hit was sufficient to knock its teeth out of him, for a second. Desperately, Edward shoved the gun into its mouth. He couldn't see it, face pressed into the floor, but he heard teeth clink on metal. He pulled the trigger, but the bullet passed through cheek; the angle was wrong. Teeth bit at his hand, digging into the back and nearly making him drop the gun, and he yanked it out of its mouth. Instead, he shoved the barrel of the Beretta into the zombie side and fired.

The right of its pelvis broke under the point-blank shot. It shook, muscles all over the body quivering from the trauma. Edward was able to sling it off him, getting to his knees and throwing frantic looks around. There was a hallway, the stairs - a door! There was a corpse on the ground in front of it, lying still, but it was a risk he'd have to take. He stumbled over the body, swung the wooden door open and fell into the room.

The change was shocking. Carpet was on the floor, a desk light lit the room warmly, and rows of small bottles lined the wall. There was a small bed, a short desk and a typewriter atop it. Suddenly a screaming, stabbing pain hit Edward on hit chest.

"Je-sus-CHRIST!" He shouted, clawing at his Kevlar. He pulled it and his shirt off him, thrashing in pain. They slapped to the floor and Edward was staring downward, at his stomach, his pecs, and the layer of green slime over both. It felt like it should've been smoking. Edward grabbed blindly at the shelves of small bottles, finding labels that meant nothing to him. _Acetaminophen, Chlor Tripolon..._where the hell was the goddamn acid repellent! Edward grabbed at the bed sheets, tried to rub the vomit off his chest and found it was to no avail. His vision going wavy, he collapsed to the floor and clawed uselessly at the flaming skin.

And then, thumping. This room apparently not soundproofed, Edward could hear the quick thumps of something faster - and maybe more dangerous - than a zombie coming down the stairs. Edward raised his gun, still on the floor, as the unknown entity hit the floor and came straight for the door, when it opened and in dashed a big black guy with a knife -

Kenneth yanked the door closed after him, bloody dagger a testament to his trip. He looked down at the pilot, eyes wide. "Zombies out there," he shouted unnecessarily. Edward ran out of strength for his arm and the gun clattered to the floor. Then the chemical expert looked down at him directly. "What happened to you?"

Edward turned over, letting him see his chest. "God - damn - zombie puked on me, and it - it - _**dammit to hell it burns! **_Get the goddamn antidote, hurry, please!"

Kenneth turned to the medications lining the wall and went through them madly, checking labels for split seconds before knocking them to the floor. It was only a couple of very long seconds before he snatched one off the wall and pulled off the cap, then knelt over Edward, pouring it over his chest. He instantly felt a heavenly coolness.

"Oh, thank you God," Edward breathed, panting for breath. Every muscle went limp, the back of his head smacking into the floor. "What is that stuff, holy water?"

Kenneth checked the label again, a slight smile across his features. "I doubt it. It's actually some heartburn medicine."

Edward blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, thought you'd say that. You said a zombie vomited on you, correct?" Edward nodded, and Kenneth continued. "Alright. Do you know how heartburn works? Otherwise known as acid reflux. It's when the acid in your stomach manages to get up out, through the cardiac sphincter - the passage between your stomach and esophagus. The term 'heartburn' is rather incorrect, as it doesn't affect your heart at all, but rather burns close to the cardiac area. In any case, it's caused by stomach acid. Now, if a zombie vomited on you, I think you got a good dose of the stuff. That was what was burning you."

Edward pushed himself up, sneering. "Really now? Pukin' acid? Nice idea Kenny, but you're outside your league here. You're the police corn - coro - corpse guy. I'm a beat cop. I've been puked on by more drunks than I can count, and it's never done _that_ to me."

Kenneth held up one finger. "Yes - but that's vomit of beer and whatever they've been eating. Stomach acid is powerful stuff; it can strip the paint off a car. What you've been hit with, I'm sure, is diluted with food stuffs and liquids. But...you know that corpse in the balcony, above the dining room?"

"Wish I didn't," muttered Edward.

"I've been poking at it...it's gut is totally empty. It - and I'm willing to bet all it's friends - hasn't eaten anything in days at least...but it's still producing acid. And saliva, by the way..." Kenneth looked over at Edward. "It's odd. It's showing symptoms of...well, sufficient stimulus, even thinking, of food can get your mouth watering and all. It's like...these people - if you can call them that, I'm not quite sure anymore - are thinking of food all the time. They're just pumping out acid and spit, basically, like no tomorrow. And intestinal fluids, of course, but that's not going to make a practical difference to us."

Edward frowned, trying to follow the train of logic, but it was a little beyond him. At least. He shook his head - he had managed to catch that these things puke acid, and there was some scientific reason that made it work. He looked about for his vest, noticing it lying in the corner. "You got any of that left for my Kevlar?"

"Oh - maybe, let me check." Kenneth turned to the rows of medicine, then stopped dead. He peered intently at the bottles, brown eyes flitting over the labels.

Edward's face took on an expression of impatience. "So, that a yes or no?"

"What? Oh, right." Kenneth plucked one of the bottles off the wall and passed it to Edward. As the pilot clumsily poured it over his vest, he looked back at the chemical expert grudgingly.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," he said, sarcastic.

"No, no, it's alright." Kenneth poked at the bottles, deep in thought, then gave Edward a sheepish grin. "Sorry, just...this is very odd. Look at the stuff we have here. It's all from Umbrella. I mean, it's not surprising, Raccoon runs on Umbrella, but...they've got some holes in their treatments. Look at this stuff! Who stocks a cure for cholera but doesn't bother to get insulin shots? This is odd...almost, suspicious..."

"Uh, yeah, that's great." Edward had finished treating his vest and threw it back on himself, buckling it up. "You think you can make something useful here?"

"Useful...actually, yeah...yeah. I went through some med school of my own, you know, I can make some first aid stuff here. I mean, maybe I'm not as good as..." Kenneth trailed off, words failing him. He looked downwards, eyes focused on something far off.

Edward snapped his fingers. "Hello? You in there, Kenny? Not as good as who? Rebecca? Ruh - Beck - Uh. Dead girl. Remember?"

Kenneth's mouth worked for a few seconds before words began. His voice was flat. "Yes. Not as good as Rebecca. But I think I can fix something up."

Edward nodded. "Good. Do so." He moved to the door, opened it with one hand, and pointed back at Kenneth. "Don't come out until you've got enough to last us. Y'hear?"

"Will do."

"You better." Edward looked grim. He passed through the door. A second later - he supposed some of the walls were soundproofed, but this one wasn't - he heard a trio of gunshots. For another second he just stood there, looking at the ground, thoughts far away. Then he sighed and turned to the shelf.


End file.
